


Head Full of Ghosts

by Portrait_of_a_Fool



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Antisocial Behavior, Depersonalization, Depression, Gore, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 93,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portrait_of_a_Fool/pseuds/Portrait_of_a_Fool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Project Insight, Bucky was in the gutter, but he used his talents to drag himself out again. Now he is a new man with a dirty job that he excels at and apartment across the street from Steve’s. He also has a head full of ghosts that haunt him every step of the way.</p><p>Steve hasn’t stopped searching for Bucky, but it’s like he fell off the face of the earth. As the months creep by, Steve can’t stop himself from sinking into depression. He deals with his sadness the only way he knows how—by putting on a mask and protecting people.</p><p>Then one night Steve comes home to find Bucky waiting for him and everything gets flipped upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story doesn’t deal with any of the events from _Age of Ultron_ nor does it take into account anything from _Civil War_. Therefore this is, in a way, a canon-divergent AU.
> 
>  **BE AWARE** that I have not warned for everything, but I have covered the big ones. I will not change my mind about the rest and ask that you please respect that. If the prospect of something possibly upsetting you is stressful then close the tab now.
> 
> This is not a happy story full of kittens and rainbows, but I _can_ promise you all a happy(ish) ending.

_The spirit burns the darkest hours_   
_My corrupt brain is hurting_

— Skinny Puppy   
“Cult”

Bucky’s mother is sitting at a small table, cup of coffee at her elbow, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her dark hair has fallen over one of her eyes and she appears to be deep in thought. Bucky puts a bullet through her head just as she looks up at him and smiles. She doesn’t even flinch, just says, _How was your day at school, big guy?_ The man tied to the chair behind her, however, goes over with a clatter and a gurgle as he hears himself reply, _Heya, Ma. You mind if I go over to Steve’s later?_ He watches her long enough to hear her say, _Long as you promise to do your homework instead of bumming around with Stevie_. The ghost of his mother reaches out to ruffle his hair and that’s when he turns away. He’s done here; they pay him to make the messes, not clean them up and his mother will come back, she always does.

The ghosts distracted him at first, had him screaming at shadows and chasing fairy tales down back alleys, but that was months ago. Now the ghosts come and go as they please, it doesn’t matter if he ignores them or not. He watches and listens, sure, but he doesn’t let them distract him from his work. He can’t afford to do that and besides, they aren’t real anyway. Bucky knows it is insanity at its most vivid to watch his memories like movies walking down the street or standing in the shower with him, but the Winter Soldier knew how to compartmentalize and subsequently, so does Bucky. They are, after all, one and the same. It’s not always easy or perfect because they seem so _real_ sometimes, but he manages.

Outside in the frigid, whipping November wind, Bucky takes out the burner phone he was given for this job and calls the only number in the contact list. A deep, slightly accented voice answers after the second ring. It belongs to a man named Antony Giovinazzo, the first man to ever give Bucky a job, not a mission. If he owes any of the people he works for loyalty then it is Antony, but it’s very little. Bucky is the dog that will bite its masters, he proved that by intentionally failing his last mission.

“The target has been eliminated,” Bucky says.

There is a soft chuckle from the other end of the line. “The way you talk, Winter.” There’s a pause where he waits for Bucky to say something and when he doesn’t, Antony chuckles again. “Come get your other half. Same place as usual.”

Bucky hangs up without responding and crushes the phone in his left hand as he walks away. He drops the phone in a garbage can a few blocks away then goes to get his money. The wind combs through his hair, pushes his coat out behind him like fluttering wings. He is no longer the Winter Soldier or “the asset”. He is James Winter to the those he works for, nicknamed The Machine in the underground by people that dare not say it to his face. Some of the bosses call him Jimmy and think they’re friends, think he wouldn’t murder them, too, for the right price.

It doesn’t matter what any of them call him though; he thinks of himself as Bucky and only Bucky. It is _his name_ and he doesn’t give it to anyone. It took too long to actually have a name again for him to willingly hand it out. He’s possessive of it, holds tightly to it because that name is what made him real again. Things like Winter Soldier and “the asset” were only the names of objects, no better than if they had called him _gun_ or _knife_. Bucky is the name of a real, live human being and even if he doesn’t feel like a person most of the time, he has a name that says he is one anyway.

He picks up the other half of his payment in the alley behind a nightclub called Ballyhoo. There’s a guy waiting outside the rear fire door, shivering inside his heavy coat, looking up and down the alley as he smokes a joint. He still jumps when Bucky steps out of the shadows thrown by two dumpsters.

“Shit, Winter,” the guy says. “You always get the drop on me.”

Bucky holds out his hand for the thick envelope of cash and doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah, yeah, big talker, I know,” the guy says. He slaps the envelope into Bucky’s hand. “There ya go.”

The guy’s name is Kyle Strahan and he’s not much more than a glorified flunky. Kyle is the one Bucky deals with when he does work for Giovinazzo. Everyone calls him Gopher because he’s a _gofer_ , but he’s got aspirations. Bucky isn’t supposed to know his real name, but he knows all kinds of things about the people he works for. He could destroy half the crime families on the east coast if he really wanted to, but then he’d be out of a job, so that’s not a road he goes down. It would be self-defeating and he’s not into noble causes anymore.

“Thank you,” Bucky says. He turns to leave, but then Kyle clears his throat.

“So, hey, um… I wanted to ask you somethin’,” Kyle says as he scratches his jaw.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“What’s it… uh… ya know… What’s it like?” Kyle asks. He shifts on his feet. “Doin’ the deed, I mean.”

Bucky turns his head and watches Kyle over his shoulder for a moment. He has no interest in making nice, shooting the bull, talking shop. Engaging in _chit-chat_. Kyle wants tough talk and glamour, he wants flash and bang and stories that sound like something from a shoot ‘em up action movie. He doesn’t want the truth from Bucky, which is, _It feels no different than tying my shoes._

“Goodnight,” Bucky says after a drawn-out moment that leaves Kyle squirming inside his own skin. People don’t like it when Bucky looks too long at them, he’s noticed this. He walks away then, slipping back into the shadows and disappearing.

“Fuckin’ creep,” he hears Kyle mutter when he thinks Bucky is out of earshot.

Bucky didn’t get into this line of work to make friends. He got into it because killing people is the only thing he really knows how to do and he had to have a job. Real people without jobs or identification or pasts live and die on the streets because they have nowhere else to go. Bucky ended up in the gutter just like anyone else in his situation would have, but he had the skills to drag himself out again. That’s just what he did once he stopped running after the ghost of a skinny, laughing boy who looked at Bucky like he was his entire world.

Bucky goes home to his nice apartment, hangs his coat on a hook beside the door. He puts his money away in the lock box he keeps hidden in a little compartment he cut into the back of the guest bedroom closet wall. There is no art hanging on his walls, no furniture in any of the rooms except a bed in the master bedroom and a narrow table with a straight-backed chair pushed against the big window in the living room. He owns a coffee pot, a toaster and a microwave; he owns a cell phone, but he only turns it on twice a day and he never makes phone calls, he only returns them. He does not own a landline phone, computer or a television.

When he eats, he often does so standing over the kitchen sink then he washes his dishes, dries them and puts them away again. It barely looks like anyone lives in this apartment, an illusion that is compounded by the fact Bucky almost never turns on the lights. On the rare occasions he does use the overheads, he closes the blinds and draws the curtains over them beforehand. All of the bulbs are low wattage; good enough for him to see by, but they wouldn’t suit most people for very long.

The young married couple that lived here before him liked cool, soothing colors and had a cushy couch upholstered in smoky lavender fabric. There were paintings and family photographs hanging on the walls, knick-knacks tastefully placed on shelves and end tables. That young married couple is dead now and all that remains of their time in this place is the colors they painted the walls—dove grey living room, soft sky blue master bedroom and bath, creamy pistachio green in the guest room-slash-office, dreamy turquoise in the guest bathroom. The kitchen is white-white-white everywhere, like snow and ice.

Bucky makes two sandwiches in his glittering frost-white kitchen and heats a microwavable container of soup. He eats an apple and an orange when he’s done with his sandwiches and soup. He rinses out the sink, throws away what refuse there is then goes to sit in the living room so he can look out the window at the apartment across the way. He lays his gun on the table within easy reach.

It’s dark in the apartment across the way and has been for the last three nights. He’s patient though and doesn’t grow bored waiting; he takes the time to sort and process and think. He taps his fingers on the edge of the table, _tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…_ The Winter Soldier did not fidget, it was not a part of his programming. Bucky can choose not to fidget if he wants to, but he doesn’t mind the automatic rhythm his metal fingers drum out softly while he sits in the dark. They sound like the ticking of a clock as the minutes drag over into an hour, an hour and a half and still, the windows across the way stay black.

 _Whatcha doin’, Buck?_ The ghost of Steve Rogers is standing beside him, talking to a version of him that is not really him at all. Not anymore.

“Waiting for you,” Bucky answers Steve’s ghost anyway.

The Bucky-that-was says, _Trying to decide if I ought to ask Maria Haskel to go dancing Saturday or if I should spend it at the movies with you._

Steve’s ghost shifts on his feet and looks disappointed, but then he plasters a smile on his face. _You should definitely ask Maria to go dancing, she’s a real cherry muffin. We can go to the pictures any old time._

Bucky-that-was scratches the end of his nose and shrugs. _I dunno. I hear she’s kind of a share crop, too. I really don’t wanna say nothing bad about her though, she’s a sweetheart._

 _So go,_ says Steve’s ghost. _If you like her then you should just go dancing._

 _You’re right._ Bucky-that-was grins and bumps against the side of Steve’s ghost. _But ya know what? I ain’t gonna._

_Why not?_

_‘Cause maybe I’d rather spend the weekend at the picture show with my best pal, that’s why,_ Bucky-that-was says.

Steve’s ghost smiles so huge he looks like he’s about to pop. _If you’re sure you wanna waste your time on me, then all right._

 _Sure, I’m sure._ Bucky-that-was slings his arm around Steve’s ghost, giving him a one-armed hug from the side.

Bucky-that-is watches as they walk—fade—away, disappearing through the doorway of the kitchen. If they were still there, Bucky could hear them, so he knows they’re gone for now. He knows, too, that he decided not to ask Maria Haskel out because Steve didn’t need to be alone. His mother’s illness was getting worse all the time, the TB ward she’d worked on had become her home a couple of weeks ago. Soon, she’d be dead and then Steve wouldn’t have any family; he’d be entirely on his own. That was going to be extra hard for Steve who was so puny half the time that it’d be miracle if he could hold down a job well enough to pay the rent. Bucky had passed on a date with a sure thing to sit in a smoky theater with his best friend so he didn’t have to be alone. _That_ Bucky had been a good guy, a genuinely decent person.

He sits in the dark and tries to recognize any trace of that Bucky in himself and finds nothing but empty space and echoes. Bucky taps his fingers and pushes down the unfamiliar ache that rises up inside of him at the realization. If that man used to be there then some of him should be left, but Bucky can’t find him anymore. In that way, he is less than a ghost; he’s only a memory, a recollection of someone he used to know.

Another hour passes before a light comes on in the apartment in the building opposite Bucky’s. He’s listening to the faint strains of big band music leaking into the air around him like it’s coming through the air conditioning vents. Of all the ghosts, the sounds are the ones that jar him the most; they’re abrupt and loud a lot of the time, but other times they’re faint, far away. Whispers oozing through thick walls to taunt him, make him strain his ears and bare his teeth in frustration. It’s worse when they’re that soft; no more than muttering that fills up his head with things that are _almost_ words, _almost_ fragments of long forgotten songs or conversations. They are the distant sounds of what might be laughter or could be screams.

The maddeningly distant, thin wail of a trombone fades at the appearance of the living room light coming on. Bucky doesn’t move other than to lift his head like he’s only a split second away from scenting the air. Steve walks into the living room, a duffel bag hanging from one hand that he drops on the sofa before he plops down on the middle cushion. He looks tired, rubbed raw and drained. This latest excursion of his was not one he took in order to further neutralize the threat of HYDRA then. This excursion was Steve going off on another wild goose chase to look for Bucky, to chase ghosts in his own way. Bucky has learned to tell the difference; after a mission to destroy a HYDRA base, Steve is tired, but he seems pleased. After a trip to follow up on a tip about Bucky, Steve looks worn down and defeated.

Bucky leans forward to see Steve a little better and wonders at how he never draws his blinds. He’s a sitting duck there on his couch; if Bucky wanted to, he could go into his bedroom, get his rifle and nail him straight through his right temple. That’s how exposed Steve is sitting on his sofa, elbows propped on his knees, hands up so that his fingertips cover his mouth as he stares at the wall. Bucky watches his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy exhalation as Steve drags his hands up his face and over his head. The movement leaves his unwashed hair sticking up like hedgehog bristles. 

It took Bucky a little while to track Steve down again after Project Insight—after mission failure—after the Winter Soldier was given a name. For a while, Steve was altogether AWOL, probably in the hospital under an alias while he recovered from his injuries. Then even after Bucky deemed he had been hospitalized long enough, he remained gone. There was no sign of him at his old apartment, not even a whisper as to his whereabouts. Bucky knew his old haunts though and each morning he could make it, Bucky went to the reflecting pool and waited, hidden behind a thick column. Eventually, Steve came back and not long after that, Sam Wilson started joining him again. They didn’t talk much, just ran side by side, Steve keeping himself in check so Sam could match his pace.

It was easy enough to follow Steve home after one of his morning runs; Steve seldom ever looks around to see if he is being followed. When he does, he is painfully obvious about it, giving plenty of warning for the pursuer to duck out of sight. Even after all Steve has been through he still trusts people; he genuinely seems to believe that no one will ever try to ambush him when he’s not looking. He should know better than that, but Steve has what Bucky thinks could be called _faith_ —faith in humanity, faith in the power of good to triumph over evil, faith in the decency of others. He believes in honor and honor does not include sucker punches or snipers on rooftops. Steve is glaringly naïve; he is the kid who took the candy because he doesn’t automatically think the worst of people. He _wants_ to trust them and so, he does.

Bucky is none of those things. He believes in the power of destruction and ruination. He has felt it tearing him apart from the inside out and the end result now sits alone in a chair and watches a man across the way. He wonders if he ever was like Steve that way, but he doesn’t think so, at least not so overtly. Deep down even the Bucky-that-was had a sense that human beings weren’t to be trusted with no reservations. He smiled and laughed, made jokes and flirted with every girl he came across, but at his core he never fully trusted anyone but Steve Rogers. Even after all these years, Steve _still_ has his trust though he may never know it and _that_ is something Bucky mistrusts. What makes Steve Rogers so damn special?

It’s isn’t Steve’s fault that Bucky is flawed in this way (compromised) it is his own fault, but even knowing it, he cannot correct the problem. Instead, he sits here night after night when he does not have to be elsewhere. Steve isn’t stupid or helpless by any stretch, but there’s a part of Bucky that rears up fiercely (over)protective every time he looks at him, like Steve needs to watched closely just so he doesn’t wander out into traffic. Steve would not appreciate the sentiment one bit, which is why Bucky won’t—and never did—tell him these things. Wanting to keep someone safe doesn’t mean you henpeck them to death or treat them like an invalid child. This way, Bucky can keep an eye on Steve without getting in the way—and without ever having to see another crushed, heartbroken look on Steve’s face again.

Not long after he found Steve, Bucky began looking into apartments in the area. It took him a couple of months to get everything together that he needed, namely I.D. and more money, but he worked at it and called in a couple of favors he’d already curbed. By late September, Steve’s married neighbors across the way had both died; one in a freak car accident, the other from what appeared to be a suicide. It was understood that the distraught young man could no longer live without his wife and had thrown himself off the roof of the very building Bucky now lives in. That someone might have pushed him from the roof never factored into matters even though he screamed all the way down. People who intentionally jump off buildings do not scream; they see that shit coming from a mile away, they know how the story ends and they’re glad of it. It’s one of those little known facts though, so Bucky doesn’t hold it against anyone for not figuring it out. Why would he? It works in his favor and got the apartment on the market much quicker without a murder investigation in the way.

Steve was home the night the former tenant of Bucky’s apartment plummeted to his death. He was on his way back from the store and he had tried to help the lost cause splattered all over the sidewalk. It had made the papers; not only was Captain America a hero on the battlefield, he was a home front hero as well, trying to help where he could. The article stated that the newspaper had been unable to reach Steve for a statement on the matter. Bucky had watched him throw his cell phone in the trash and walk away from it one morning. Sam plucked it off the top, identified himself as Steve’s assistant and said they had no comment at that time. Then he’d given Steve the phone back and told him he _really_ needed to learn how to lie because no way was Sam going to keep calling himself Captain America’s _assistant_. Steve looked like the mere idea of lying gave him indigestion.

In his apartment, Steve folds over himself until he’s practically laying across the tops of his thighs. He rests his face against his knees and laces his fingers behind his head. This is common behavior after a failed search for Bucky. It would be easy enough to end Steve’s torment; he could walk across the street right now, take the stairs up to Steve’s floor and knock on his door. However, if he did that then he would only bring Steve a new, different kind of torment and Bucky does not want to make him suffer. Bucky is not the man Steve wants him to be, he will _never_ be that man again. The thought of disappointing Steve—of _hurting_ Steve—is not acceptable.

Even as more pieces of his old self slot into place, he can feel how changed he is, how he’s so far gone he can never, ever go back. If nothing else, Steve would be aghast to know that Bucky can still put a gun to a man’s head and pull the trigger like it’s the same as taking a breath. So, he keeps his distance, hiding right under Steve’s nose where he can keep an eye on Steve and Steve will never know it. If Bucky leaves him alone and stays out of his sight then eventually Steve will give up looking for him. Even stubborn men have to quit sometime, even men as stubborn (and hopeful) as Steve Rogers.

After a little while, Steve sits up straight again, scrubs his hands over his face then stands. He grabs his duffel and walks out of the living room. The light goes off and a moment later, the bedroom light winks on. Bucky watches Steve gather his pajamas from the chest of drawers, then walks into the bathroom with them and his duffel of dirty laundry to be disposed of in the hamper. The door closes and Bucky imagines he can hear the hiss and splutter of the shower coming on.

While he waits for Steve to get out of the shower, Bucky gives his full attention to the ghosts of their much younger selves that arrived around the time Steve was getting his pajamas. They can’t be much older than ten or twelve; Steve is in a hospital bed, propped up on a stack of pillows with a knit cap on his head and gloves on his hands. They’re playing cards and laughing about something though Steve stops to cough so hard he doubles up on himself. Bucky-that-was rises to pound him on the back. These ghosts are hazy, not as clear as some, this memory is a waking dream that’s more fog than form.

Bucky does glean bits and pieces though—that was the year Steve got double pneumonia and they all thought he was a goner that time for sure, but Steve was gamey and full of surprises. When he was out of the woods, Bucky went to the hospital and sat on the ward with him a couple of times a week. They played cards, one game in particular, though Bucky can’t quite get his head to wrap around _the name_. It’s a simple thing, but it’s little details like that which tend to leave him infuriated if he can’t scrape them up from the ruin of his memory. This time it does come though, straining through the muck just as the ghosts flicker out of sight. Old maid. They played old maid like it was the only game in town… at least they did until the man in the bed next to Steve’s taught them how to play poker.

That’s a good one, that splinter of a ghost and Bucky files it away for keeps, for taking out later and examining closer to look for more details. Right now, Steve is walking out of the bathroom, hair damp and shoulders still so tense. He looks dejected, even from this distance and through the slats of the blinds. Bucky is… he is… _sorry_ , yes, that’s it. For that he is sorry. Steve probably would have been better off if Bucky had just had the decency to stay dead. Or if the Winter Soldier had finished his mission after all.

 _Give it time,_ Bucky reminds himself. Steve got over him once, he can do it again. This, the way it is now, is the only way they can see each other. Bucky will keep an eye on him, make sure he stays safe even now, even big and strong and Captain America. He will be Steve’s watchdog, he owes him that much, but he can never be his friend again no matter what. Bucky is not the kind of guy even Steve Rogers would want to be friends with.

When Steve flips off the bedroom light, Bucky watches his silhouette lie down on his bed without bothering to pull back the covers. Satisfied that all is well for now, Bucky finally leaves his post to get some rest of his own.


	2. Chapter 2

_Though your soul has gone so far away from mine_   
_Your mouth opens slowly, blowing smoke like time_

— Deadboy and the Elephantmen   
“Like the Dead Would Laugh”

After yet another wasted effort in finding Bucky, Steve gets up the next morning to meet Sam for breakfast. He shouldn’t have agreed to it, but he has a hard time saying no to his friends, not to mention, he really doesn’t need to rattle around his apartment all day long. All he does is brood and fret; he imagines all of the horrible things that could have happened to Bucky between the last time they saw each other and now, nearly a year later. He imagines over and over that Bucky might already be dead. If he is, Steve doesn’t think anyone would actually tell him about it.

An hour later he is sitting at a café with an outdoor eating area. Sam is sitting across from him and shivering in his coat, but he doesn’t complain. They’ve got the patio to themselves this morning because it’s so cold only idiots or crazy people would want to sit out here. Steve doesn’t think he’s an idiot, but he does sometimes wonder if he might be the littlest bit crazy. He doesn’t like crowded places or being somewhere he can’t see all the exits and know the path is clear. Sam says it’s PTSD, mild but there; Steve says he’s just a little claustrophobic, that’s all. He sips his coffee and keeps his thoughts to himself, pretends Sam isn’t watching him with that patented Sam Wilson is Concerned look on his face. Steve makes it to the last swallow of his coffee before he can’t take it anymore and meets Sam’s eyes across the table.

“What?” he asks with a sigh.

“You know what,” Sam says.

“And you know I don’t want to talk about it,” Steve says.

“But you _need_ to, man,” Sam says. “I’ve been with you on this for months now. You think I can’t see how it’s eating you up inside?”

“I can handle it,” Steve says.

Sam snorts and leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Right. You’re handling it like it’s your job.”

Steve cracks a small smile at that and looks away from Sam. “Now you’re catching on.”

“Bullshit,” Sam says. “We haven’t found him yet and we might _never_ find him.”

“But we might. I’m not giving up on him, Sam,” Steve says. He does not correct Sam’s language, much as he might want to.

“Okay, fine.” Sam spreads his arms out and starts to say more, but stops when the waiters come with their food.

It takes two of them just to carry all of Steve’s breakfast; he eats like a glutton because he burns like a furnace. He’ll need a snack before lunch and two or three snacks between lunch and supper. He can go without food, too, but if he doesn’t have to then he won’t do it. It’s best to keep his strength up while he has the access because who knows when he’ll get stuck in a situation where he can’t grab a bagel or three. Steve and Sam thank the waiters and they nod before walking away quickly, sensing the invisible Do Not Disturb sign hanging over their table. 

Steve crams a sausage link into his mouth and goes about doctoring his double stack of Belgian waffles. He really wishes Sam would just drop it, thinks it at him with as much ferocity as he can muster, _Let it go. Let it go. Let it go._

“I feel like a broken record here, but you need to listen,” Sam continues.

 _Crap._ Steve eats a piece of bacon and grunts at Sam, it could well be _carry on_ or _please shut up_. Sam, of course, takes it to mean the former and keeps on talking.

“You can’t keep avoiding it,” Sam says. “Even if we do find him, he’s not going to be the same Bucky he was before Zola messed him up. He might not be Bucky at all. Hell, he _might_ try to kill you again. Or me.”

“We’ll work it out,” Steve says and he believes it with his whole heart. No matter how bad it is, they can fix it if they try.

“Your optimism verges on being stupidity sometimes,” Sam says. “You know that, right?”

Steve jerks his head up and gapes at Sam for that. Sam looks apologetic, but he does not say he’s sorry.

“I wouldn’t let him hurt you, Sam,” Steve says because that’s the important part here. But there’s also, “I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not stupid, but this… man. Come _on_ ,” Sam says. “It’s kinda stupid sometimes. You believe in him so much and he’s done nothing to—”

“He didn’t kill me, Sam,” Steve says. “How many times do I have to repeat that? _He didn’t kill me._ I mean, obviously he didn’t since I’m sitting right here. He could have though and it would’ve been easy. If nothing else, he could’ve left me in the river to drown. That tells me all I need to know and it should tell you something as well. You look at all of the bad things he did, but you don’t stop and think that it wasn’t really him. He had no _choice_ in the matter. When he was given the choice to kill me or not kill me, he chose to save me. _That_ is the Bucky I know and it says he’s still in there. I know it’s risky, I know it’s dangerous—I know _he_ is dangerous—but my friend is still in there somewhere, too and I’ve got to hold onto that because I don’t have much else. So please, for the love of Christ, _drop it_.”

“Damn, Steve,” Sam says after a while.

“Yeah,” Steve says. He frowns down at his omelet then cuts into it. “Yeah.”

Sam reaches over and clasps his arm: _I’m with you._ Steve has never doubted that about Sam, but he knows Sam feels the need to be the voice of reason here. He looks at things a lot more objectively than Steve does. Which leaves Sam more pragmatic about the possible outcome(s) should they find Bucky again. That and because Sam is Steve’s friend, he doesn’t like the way _not_ finding Bucky tears Steve up a little more every time they come up empty-handed.

They eat their breakfast in silence and when Sam steals a strip of Steve’s bacon, he knows for a fact they’re all good again. Sam goes in and pays for breakfast because it’s still really crowded in there and Steve catches himself balking. He could’ve done it—would’ve, too—but Sam beat him to the punch. When he comes out to the patio again, he slaps Steve on the shoulder.

“Come with me,” Sam says.

“Where are we going?” Steve asks even as he falls in step with Sam.

“Art supply store,” Sam says.

“What? Why?” Steve asks.

“Because you need something to keep yourself occupied,” Sam says. “You told me the other night that you used to draw and don’t think I haven’t seen you doodling on the backs of receipts and crap, too. So, let’s get you back on that horse.”

“I don’t have _time_ to—”

“Don’t argue with me here, Steve,” Sam says. “It’ll help you with your depression.”

“I’m not… What the… No,” Steve says blinking at Sam. He is not depressed. He’s not. Really.

“Whatever you say,” Sam says.

“Sam,” Steve says. 

“Captain Sadface,” Sam says back with a nod, like he’s greeting an old friend. There is laughter making his brown eyes sparkle.

“Um.” It’s the best Steve can do on such short notice.

“It’s okay to be sad about this,” Sam says. “It’s normal. But hoping it’ll go away if you ignore it long enough isn’t good for you. You need to work through it and art is good therapy without all the couches and shrinks saying, ‘And how does that make you feel?’ It’ll also get you back in touch with that part of your old life, which is good, too.”

“Jeeze,” Steve mutters.

He regrets telling Sam how he used to draw, how he and Bucky were in art class together the day news of the war broke. Steve had felt a tingle of fear mixed with anticipation run up his spine. He’d seen it as something both awful for the country—for the world—and as the chance he’d secretly been waiting for. It was his opportunity to do something good with his life; something _useful_ because Steve was about the most useless human being on the planet, at least in his opinion. He couldn’t even play chase with Bucky when they were kids and if that wasn’t worthy of being deemed a waste of space then what was? Bucky had paled beside him, cut his eyes to the side and muttered, “Don’t even think about it, Steve.” It had already been too late though and the look on Bucky’s face said he knew that, too.

Steve misses Bucky like he would miss a limb or an eye. He misses Bucky like there’s a hole inside of him that just won’t close up anymore. It’s an empty place that clangs with echoes, words left unsaid, touches remembered but no longer felt. Steve grieves a lot for the life he missed out on while he was frozen, all of the decades rolling by him while he slept in some dark limbo, not alive, but not dead either. He grieves for Bucky the most, even still, even knowing he’s out there. Sometimes, Steve thinks that has made the grief even worse because Bucky is there, just out of his reach, a flicker in the corner of his eye that is gone by the time he turns his head.

Once or twice, he thinks he has seen him; reflected in shop windows or disappearing around a corner. It’s like Bucky is right here with him, but he can’t see him anymore and it makes his mind creak and groan from the pressure of it. Of all the things he has lost, Bucky is the one that came back to him; he’s alive and drawing breath in this century right along with Steve, but they are still separated; one still falling into the snow and the other stuck on a train headed to God knows where. That empty ache gnaws at Steve day in and day out until sometimes he thinks he’s going to scream.

He startles when Sam grabs his elbow to keep him from walking right past the art supply store. Steve draws up short, rocking on his heels he stops so abruptly.

“We’re here,” Sam says.

“I see that,” Steve says, looking at the items in the display windows. His skin prickles with a peculiar kind of nervousness, but his fingertips itch at the idea of holding a pencil again. Before he goes in the store though he focuses on the reflections in the window, looking for a familiar face and finding none there but his own and Sam’s. “Let’s do this then.”

Sam laughs and pulls the door open for Steve to walk in ahead of him.

When they come out of the store again they’re loaded down with art supplies. Steve went a little nuts once he let himself actually get into the idea of drawing again _for real_ , not just doodling on scraps of paper with Bic pens. After nearly swallowing his tongue at the cash register when he saw the cost of his excitement, Steve is feeling it again even though there is the voice of a very old man in the back of his mind saying, _In my day, we never woulda paid that much for colored pencils._ That old man is, of course, Steve and he agrees with himself most thoroughly. Sam only shakes his head with a small smile and tells him to stop looking so constipated.

“That was really expensive,” Steve says.

“Yeah, but it’ll pay for itself,” Sam says with confidence.

“How do you even know that?” Steve asks. “Maybe I can’t draw anymore and—” He hefts a blank canvas he bought at Sam’s insistence. “—I never painted a thing before in my life. I was a pen and pencil kind of guy.”

“So, it’ll be something new,” Sam says. “Artists paint. They just do.”

“How many artists do you know?” Steve asks.

“None, other than you,” Sam says. “It’s just one of those things though, right?”

“Uh… I guess,” Steve says though he remains doubtful.

Painting was always a daunting prospect for him; brushes don’t offer as much control—at least he hadn’t thought they would—and there was real trepidation in him when it came to the idea of smearing paint on a canvas. If you mess up a painting, you can’t just erase the mistake, you’re stuck with it and unlike a cheap piece of notebook paper, you can’t wad up a canvas and toss it in the trash. Of course, Steve has never been afraid of much of anything in his life, so he figures why should he start now? In fact, yeah, he thinks the best way to get over that worry is to make the canvas the first thing he works on. Given how he is warming to this idea the more he thinks on it, the more he believes that Sam might actually be onto something.

Sam carries up his share of the supplies then leaves Steve in the entryway of his apartment. He claps him on the shoulder and says, “You will get through this.”

“Sometimes I’m not so sure,” Steve says. It’s easy to be honest here in familiar territory.

“Look, I know you miss him and you want him back, but until that happens, use this to do something productive,” Sam says. “You’re driving yourself crazy over this guy.”

“He—” _He was my everything. My whole world. I can’t just let that go because I’ve got paint now._ “He’s my friend.”

“I know he is,” Sam says.

What Steve hears though is, _I know he_ was _and I wish you would accept he might not be any longer._ Sam doesn’t do these things to discourage Steve; he does them because he doesn’t want to see Steve hurt. Steve hurts all the time though, mostly it’s easy to ignore, to push down and hide, but the ache never truly leaves. 

“I’ll be okay,” Steve says.

He smiles at Sam to punctuate that and Sam’s answering smile is a little sad, a little like it’s saying, _You’re a terrible liar,_ just like Natasha would if she was here right now. However, because Steve is not only Sam’s friend, but one of his heroes, too, Sam chooses to believe him. Even Sam, smart and capable as he is, hates the idea of Captain America being a depressed old guy with a young face. Just because Steve is a crappy liar doesn’t mean he’s unobservant and doesn’t know how to play to those factors when he needs to. If it spares Sam a little extra worry then he’s glad to do it; there’s no sense in dragging his friends down the path with him. Steve is not and never has been that guy.

Sam steps over the threshold back into the hallway and nods. “I expect art the next time I see you. Maybe something I can hang up on my wall.”

“You want freebies now, is that it?” Steve asks.

“You bet your ass I do,” Sam says. “ _Signed_.”

Steve’s laugh is genuine as he closes the door. “Abyssinia, Sam.”

“See ya,” Sam says, mouth quirking up in a puzzled little smile at Steve’s use of outdated—nay, ancient—slang.

Then the door is closed and Steve is all alone again with bags of art supplies. The air feels heavy, like the oil pastels and acrylic paints are waiting for him to make a move. With a sigh, Steve picks up the easel he bought and looks around for the spot with the best light to set it up. He finds that spot right in front of his living room windows and raises the blinds all the way to let in even more light. He looks out the window at the world around him, the world he no longer fits in as well as he would like to. The world where he feels like he is constantly playing catch-up and getting nowhere; a hamster running on a wheel. The windows of the building across from him are mirrors from the reflected sunlight where it bounces off closed curtains and blinds. There are slits of darkness from the apartment directly across from him though; the blinds are cracked just enough they don’t bounce the light back as strongly as most of the other windows.

Steve looks away with a clenching feeling in his gut when he thinks about the man who used to live in that apartment. How he’d hit the ground so hard the top of his skull had practically popped itself off when he impacted with the sidewalk. He’d still tried to help even knowing it was a lost cause; the man’s brain had lain in bloody chunks splattered across the ground and the blood had been wet and dark there in the nighttime glow of the street lights. Steve had been somewhat acquainted with his neighbors across the way; the man’s name was DeShaun, his wife’s name was Karen. They had a little French bulldog named Clyde that they doted on. Someone else lives in their apartment now, someone Steve has never seen, but he doesn’t think about that. He thinks about how sad it is his neighbors are dead, about how they were such nice people and he’d bumped into them because they both shopped at the bakery a couple of blocks down from their respective buildings. He wonders what happened to Clyde the happy-wiggly French bulldog that had chased a rubber bone Steve threw for him one day about a week before Karen died.

He glances at the windows of the apartment once more then begins setting up his easel. He won’t let himself think about the couple he had so easily seen himself becoming friends with. He won’t think about how whoever it is that lives there now never turns on any lights unless they’ve drawn the blinds, how the new inhabitant is just a sliver of a silhouette he catches moving in the darkness sometimes, the shape barely discernible from all the other darkness swaddling it. Whoever lives there now isn’t a nice person, that’s what Steve thinks. He thinks they might be a paranoid crazy person or something and that sucks because DeShaun and Karen were happy and laughed a lot. Now someone who is only a dark shape Steve’s caught brief glimpses of lives in their apartment, killing all of the laughter that he imagines once filled those rooms.

And he’s thinking about it anyway.

Steve grumbles and tightens the screws on his easel, deems it good and goes to grab the canvas and all of his new supplies to play with. He sets up the canvas then spends fifteen minutes staring at it like he expects it to spontaneously paint itself. He reaches out and pokes the canvas with tentative fingers. It has been pre-primed, which he assumes is a good thing. That means the canvas is just waiting for him to bring it to life. That is a lot harder to do than Steve thought and he mulls it over for a while until he decides on doing something simple and relatively harmless: a landscape. He’s going to paint a landscape, yes indeed. Landscapes are safe and boring, leaves are easy, babbling brooks are peaceful. Landscapes are just the kind of thing you want to look at if you’re in the mood for a nap.

Sometimes he overwhelms himself with how boring he really is, but it’s a start and that’s what matters. Steve opens a pack of pencils, sharpens one and gets to work on the underdrawing. He only sketches it out, but it still takes him nearly an hour because he bought a pretty big canvas and he keeps erasing things, fiddling with placement and scale. When he’s ready to proceed, he squirts paints on the plastic palette he bought and picks up a brush, ready to begin and feeling totally out of his depth.

Three hours later, Steve’s landscape has not materialized. His preliminary sketch is lost beneath heavy black that fades inward to deep indigo that melts to evil-looking blue at the center. There are trees, but they’re gnarled, twisted things with branches that look like clawing fingers, they have knotholes that look like screaming mouths. All of those reaching, tearing limbs disappear into the starless black night near the upper third of the canvas. There is a faint path brushed out in dirty grey, deep blue and sickly cyan strokes. A shape stands out in the center of the canvas, picked out as a silhouette courtesy of the evil blue center of the canvas. There’s the shape of shoulders, the faint ideas of longish hair caught in a breeze. There’s a silvery glimmer of moisture caught in the eye peering over the shoulder; the face it belongs to is lost to darkness. A wink of light runs in an uneven line up the suggestion of the left arm, sparking off the metal like splintered moonlight.

Steve stares at his finished painting and swallows against the lump in his throat, feeling betrayed by his own mind. The last few hours are a blur to him, he painted this in a fugue, not even really seeing it, only swirling the paint around, making lines, all of it hints, ideas, suggestions. Obvious for what—for who—it is staring over their shoulder and out of the painting at Steve. That glint of light in Bucky’s eye is razor-sharp, painful to look at and dangerous to know. All Steve can think though is that he misses the sound of Bucky’s laughter, how his fingers felt combing through his hair. How nice it was to be held by him when the light did not flare cold and harsh in his blue eyes.

He misses how Bucky smoked just like pretty much everyone else back then, but he never smoked around Steve because of his asthma. He’d go out on the fire escape and talk to him through the cracked window and Steve would watch how the smoke would curl and fog out of his mouth. Watching Bucky through the streaked glass was like watching Bucky on a movie screen. Sometimes Bucky would catch him at it and he’d grin as he blew out the smoke so it hit the glass and flattened, obscuring his face for a moment before it curled back to frame him, to outline his features; his smiling cat mouth, his long eyelashes. Smoking wasn’t considered bad back then, so Steve could watch all of that and think it was beautiful without anyone giving him a dirty look for it. He could bury his face in the collar of Bucky’s coat and smell the smoke clinging to his clothes and think, _This is perfect. This is him._

Even now Steve likes the smell of cigarette smoke and when he gets a whiff of it, he always catches himself breathing in deep. He holds it there like he won’t have to breathe it back out again—breathe Bucky out again; let Bucky go _again_. Because the truth is that Steve loved him so much it hurt to think about it and it still does because that love has never changed or gone away. It is there in the memories of cigarette smoke and laughter and hair so thick his fingers got lost in it.

There’s a big part of Steve that has always regretted not going back and looking for Bucky. He knew he was dead, but that he’d left his body down there in the snow and ice for the wolves and ravens to pick apart has turned his stomach hard enough that he’s thrown up just thinking about it. It threatens to do so again as all the memories swarm up in his mind so vividly it’s like they’re really happening. The wind was so frigid, so wicked that it felt like a cruel, barbed tongue raking over Steve’s skin and Bucky’s eyes, forever wide and full of fear. Steve sees his hand reaching and it keeps on reaching and never grabs anything but a scream. Back then he told himself there wasn’t time, they couldn’t stop to go down into the mountain valley and search, not when so much more was at stake. He should have _made_ the time though, should have insisted and if no one would go with him then he should have gone alone and searched. 

Night after night Steve has woken from nightmares of doing just that, of searching for Bucky in the driving snow and ice. He hears him scream his name, but no matter which direction he goes, he never gets closer. If he hears Bucky calling to him from the north, as soon as he turns that way, Bucky is crying out for him from the south. On and on it goes until Steve is turning in circles, turning and turning until he wakes soaked in cold sweat with tears burning in his eyes, half crazed with sadness and desperation. 

If he had found him though then Bucky would be as dead as everyone else Steve once knew or worse, he’d be like Peggy, just a shell of who he was. For a long time Bucky was dead anyway, except now he’s _not_ dead and he never was. Bucky is out there somewhere alive and physically well (mentally, Steve figures that’s another story, but he’ll burn that bridge when he comes to it). Bucky is like Steve; he won’t get old the same way everyone else did, he will never wither up into a husk. Just knowing he’s out there—and Steve _has got to_ believe he’s still alive—makes Steve feel not so lonesome anymore. It makes him feel like he can’t give up on Bucky, not again, not when there’s even more at stake than there was back when he would have been slogging through the snow searching for a corpse he wouldn’t have found anyway.

Despite everything, Steve is _glad_ Bucky is out there taking up space in the world. The one piece of his history Steve missed the most is no longer a collection of fond memories and bad dreams. Bucky is different now, but at least he’s here and the one thing Steve will never say is that he’s happy about that; not that Bucky was undoubtedly treated horribly, not that he had his mind wiped and probably his very soul gut-punched. He is happy that there is still a chance, the second chance Steve thought he would never get and he can’t let it go. He will _never_ let it go now and if Bucky falls again regardless then this time Steve will go with him because he can’t—won’t—learn to live without him again.

Steve swallows and blinks his burning eyes, takes the canvas off the easel and goes to put it in his bedroom. He props it against the wall to finish drying out of sight. Sam will just have to wait a little longer before he gets a signed piece of art from Steve because he’ll never show this painting to anyone. It is his, he is allowed to have his sadness and yeah, fine, he is a little depressed. There is nothing else he could ever hope to be, not when things are this screwed up and sideways.

He shuts the door on the painting, on that glaring eye that won’t stop watching him. He makes himself a late lunch of frozen pizza and salad. He has ice cream for dessert. Then he sits on his couch and waits for darkness to fall. When it comes, he eats again, silent on the inside because he has something to do tonight, something that’s more therapeutic than painting. Sam would have a conniption if he knew what Steve has been getting up to in his free time since the Project Insight debacle. Natasha would call him an idiot and might even kick him or at least look like she was really, really thinking about it. Fury would be, well, furious. None of them would be out of place with their reactions, but Steve’s not ever going to tell them and he knows what he’s doing more than the three of them combined. This is the outlet he needs, this is how he makes himself useful in a different way, never mind that it’s totally illegal and he’ll be in seriously hot water if he ever gets caught. But he won’t get caught; Steve Rogers is the best at what he does, be it at home or on foreign soil. He is a soldier. He is a protector.

Night falls and Steve dozes for a little while, letting the hours tick by toward lateness. He has an internal alarm that wakes him up a little while before midnight and he rises from the sofa, stretches then goes to get dressed. Steve has moments of soul-sucking despair more and more often lately, despair so strong he has thought of changing his name to Captain Couch Potato and never leaving his apartment again. The idea of sitting around all day in his pajamas, watching crappy television or listening to music while he wallows has a certain appeal he cannot deny (and there it is—another point for _yes, Steven, you are depressed_ ). Maybe he would even blog about it, that seems to be what people do in this day and age. _Today I only got up to pee or get more Doritos. I consider it a victory against reality._

Instead of giving in to that urge, Steve puts on head-to-toe black, slicks his hair back and snugs a black ball cap down over it. He takes the black mask, so much like a muzzle, that he isn’t supposed to have, out from the hiding place on the top shelf of his closet and puts it inside his black coat. It’ll stay there until he absolutely needs it then he’ll take it out, slide it on and do what needs to be done to keep the streets of Washington D.C. a little bit safer. It’s called vigilantism, this that he does on nights when the walls seem too close and all of his memories—so new and yet old at the same time—threaten to suffocate him. But as Steve slips out of his apartment to walk into the night, he thinks of it as going to war and only there does he find real peace.


	3. Chapter 3

_You are with me always, mixed with my scar tissue, beneath my twisted skin._

— Henry Rollins   
_Solipsist_

Bucky stands at his window and watches Steve leave his building. He waits five minutes before he leaves his apartment and follows Steve. Bucky has observed him leaving late at night on several occasions and though he hasn’t followed until now, he has grown curious. Steve does not “go out”, he does not “do things” this time of night. As far as Bucky knows, Steve is not currently involved in any kind of relationship that would have him leaving at such odd hours. Which means Steve is up to something and Bucky knows for a fact that when a person leaves their domicile in the middle of the night the errand they are running is most likely of an illicit nature.

The cold night air is bracing as he steps outside and follows along after Steve. Tailing him this time of night in a quiet neighborhood poses more risks, but Bucky is a good hunter. Steve, however, is also lousy prey even if he doesn’t often think to check behind himself; any noise or the wrong move could draw his attention and there Bucky would be, caught at his own game. Without crowded sidewalks and the noise of daytime traffic to provide cover, he slinks after Steve like a wolf in the darkness, drifting from shadow to shadow, avoiding direct light as much as possible.

He follows Steve in this manner until they are well out of Steve’s nice middle class neighborhood. They’re down where the streets are darker and meaner, where there are shapes moving in the shadows like wraiths and the mutterings of madmen drift from alleyways like smoke. There is yelling and loud music from some of the buildings they creep past. Steve, Bucky notes, is also adept at keeping to the shadows, at making himself less visible. He is a good soldier and a trained killer just like Bucky though Steve exercises that particular skill set far less often than he does. Steve has never liked killing people and once, many years ago, Bucky didn’t have much taste for it either. In that way they are different; now Bucky’s mouth always tastes of blood and gunpowder.

In order to be efficient as an assassin, one cannot be possessed of a conscience and what Bucky knows—what Bucky remembers—is that the conscience is one of the first things to go. The trauma of being programmed—of being repeatedly brutalized in the name of _conditioning the subject_ —wakes up sociopathic inclinations. The lingering damage blots out the ability to give a damn about the person standing in front of you. In some ways, the rise of the sociopath inside is the mind’s way of protecting itself from all of the horror it is subjected to. It is fight or flight pushed to its furthest limits, pushed until all urges toward _flight_ are obliterated. (The only time flight is allowed is when the asset feels its life or control of the mission might be in danger. Then the asset is to report back for debriefing. The asset will be punished for its failure then it will be reset and sent out to try again.)

They tortured him and oh, how he would scream, pain and fear evolving into blind animal rage so all-consuming he could not think past the red haze in his mind. He remembers, _Get up. Fight, Sergeant Barnes. If you do not fight, you will be hurt. Do you like being hurt?_ And no, Sergeant Barnes did not like being hurt. In fact, Sergeant Barnes hated being hurt. The first day he got up off the floor and threw a punch was truly the day he started telling who he was goodbye. On a blood-spattered white tile floor, the Winter Soldier took the first steps toward full realization and he did it of his own accord. He did it out of self-preservation because he did not want to die. There was never a more efficiently cruel way to begin the ultimate breakdown—they turned his own survival instinct against him and used it to their fullest advantage. They didn’t have to wipe his mind in order to destroy him, but doing so did complete the picture. It gave them the perfect machine, the deadliest weapon.

Ahead of him, Steve takes another corner and Bucky ducks into the doorway of a shop with soaped over windows. He closes his eyes and counts to ten; he must reset himself in this clumsily inefficient way because the memories and knowledge are becoming a spiral. They are the ghosts that have already walked through his day-to-day existence and stripped him raw and like all the others. Just this morning he jolted up from a restless sleep to lock himself in his windowless bathroom where he then braced his shoulders against the door and clamped his teeth down on his meat arm. He screamed into his own skin, screamed through his bleeding flesh as the sense memories of electric shocks jolted up his spine and played tag along his nerve endings. ( _The asset will… The asset will not… The asset will… The asset will not… Nod if you understand… Good… Begin phase two…_ )

In the doorway of the abandoned shop, Bucky lets out a slow, careful breath as he reaches ten in his countdown. He steps back onto the sidewalk just as sounds of a fight erupt around the corner. He moves quickly, rounding the corner just in time to see people scattering like cockroaches from a dark alley. A body flies through the air and hits the ground. The person flops like a dying fish for a moment before scrambling to their feet and limp-running away.

 _Steve._ Steve is the cause of this minor chaos and Bucky edges closer to the fray, hears the muffled sound of a gunshot. He watches the bullet ricochet off the dirty brick side of a building; spray of sparks and orange-red dust. Theres is the wet snap of breaking bone and someone screams. Bucky risks looking down the alley and finds Steve involved in a struggle with two men that he shakes off like they’re nothing. A kneecap pops, another bone breaks and they both flee as well, one holding the other up, both of them aiding in dragging the other along. They lurch right by Bucky without noticing he is there.

There are only two people left in the alley with Steve now, a young man and woman who are clinging to each other for dear life. They are clearly drug addicts, their dirty, snarled hair, sallow skin marked with the livid red dots of acne and filthy clothes attest to that fact almost as well as a blood test would. There’s also the matter of all the little baggies and a broken glass pipe littering the ground around Steve’s booted feet.

So this is what Steve has been getting up to on his late night jaunts out into the mean streets of Washington D.C. This is highly illegal; vigilantism is one of those things that is frowned upon by law enforcement agencies both local and federal. Interesting. Bucky is about to step out of sight again, content to wait in concealment and mull over this latest development until it is time to pick up Steve’s trail again, but then he stops. Another person has slipped from their hiding place behind a pile of collapsed boxes. Bucky is moving before he even considers what he’s about to do.

“Get out of here,” Steve says to the two junkies shivering together before him. “Go—”

Before Steve can finish his sentence, before Bucky can reach the man coming up behind Steve, the guy clobbers him across the back of the head. The sound is hollow and metallic when it meets Steve’s skull and Bucky sees the aluminum baseball bat clenched tightly in his hands. Steve staggers, starts to turn, but the guy manages to hit him on the temple before Steve knocks the bat out of his hands. Then Steve’s knees go out from under him and he collapses, unconscious. If there is one vulnerable spot either he or Bucky have, it’s their heads. They can still be knocked out just like they can have their bones broken or their skin torn. They are difficult to stop and hard to kill—harder than any normal human being would be—but it is not impossible to damage them. A knife in the right spot, a fall where they land just the wrong way and they will drown in their own blood or break their necks the same as anyone else. A bullet in the brain or skull trauma of sufficient force would render their lives null and void.

In combat, guys like Steve and Bucky are a force to be reckoned with just like they are in a street fight. The difference between war and brawls in back alleys is that the rules of engagement are different. In combat, there are rules that may never be spoken aloud, but are understood. People fight dirty, but not in the same way; there is comparable training among soldiers even in opposing armies and there is an element of predictability to be had in that. There is the idea of honor, however faint, in a lot of soldiers, of greeting your enemy face-to-face when on the battlefield. People like the ones Steve has tangled with tonight are not of the same breed, people like this are unpredictable and ignoble. Such things make them dangerous in ways a trained soldier is not. It has been a long, long time since Steve threw down with feral people in dark alleys; he never saw the guy coming.

In the split second where Bucky snatches the baseball bat off the concrete and Steve hits the ground, Bucky sees his face. In that instant, Bucky’s heart shudders to a stop in his chest, but then he’s swinging the baseball bat at Steve’s attacker with all of his considerable strength. The man screams once as the force of the blow spins him around, but he doesn’t have the chance to draw breath for another scream. Bucky drops the bat in favor of putting his fist through the man’s ugly, scabby face. Literally. There is the wet crunch of the bones in the man’s face breaking like toothpicks, blood gushes outward from the force of impact and splatters Bucky’s face, warm and red. Shattered teeth ping against his cheeks like little pieces of hail. The man who hit Steve—the man who _hurt_ Steve—is dead before he hits the ground.

“Shit, shit, _fuck_ ,” the male junkie says.

The sound of his voice draws Bucky’s attention back to them and he steps forward, calm, purposeful. Steve might have let these people go, but he cannot do that. They have seen his face. The Winter Soldier does not leave witnesses. Neither does James Winter. Consequently, neither does Bucky Barnes.

“Mikey, fuck, oh fuck, man,” the female junkie sobs. She’s tugging at the male junkie’s arm, trying to get him to move because he seems frozen to the spot as he stares at Bucky with wide, horrified eyes.

Then he snaps out of his dumbstruck stupor and shoves her behind him. “Krista, baby, run,” says the male junkie who is called Mikey. Instead of running, she clings to his back, crying and shaking all over. “ _Run_ ,” Mikey tries again.

Bucky knows from that little bit alone that this waste of a human being loves the girl he calls Krista. Really loves her, so much that he’s put himself directly in harm’s way in the hopes of protecting her. His love has given him honor here in the eleventh hour. Krista is holding onto Mikey, bawling her eyes out, peeking around Mikey’s narrow shoulder to look at Bucky. She keeps saying, “We’re sorry, man. We’re _sorry_.”

Bucky isn’t listening; pleas haven’t worked on him in longer than he can recall. They mean less than nothing when he thinks of that cowardly shit clubbing Steve. Though the rage that he turns on these two now, rage that is always there just beneath the calm permafrost of his exterior, is because Mikey loves Krista. They know what it is like to hold each other, to breathe each other in and touch each others skin. He hates them for knowing all of that because even broken and used up by drugs they are still more human than he is.

He closes in on them and grabs Mikey by the throat; Mikey who struggles against him, swinging with one bony fist while still using the other to try and shove Krista out of harm’s way. Bucky squeezes harder with his metal hand that is hidden inside a black leather glove and draws back with his meat hand, fingers curled into a fist. It doesn’t take him long to finish Mikey and Krista is no hardship either. He has to chase after her a few yards, but she’s not difficult to catch; she’s running blind, panicking and sobbing uncontrollably. When he catches her, she only has time to say, “Please,” once before Bucky ends her in a flurry of punches that leave her looking like a broken marionette. He checks his watch when it’s over. It hasn’t taken long at all to erase these three bothersome insect people. Bucky is a death-dealer, after all; there has never been one better than he is.

Now that he is done with the three of them, even dental records will not be enough to identify them. For good measure, he rolls Mikey’s and Krista’s corpses and steals what identification they have on them. He will dispose of their I.D.s in the incinerator one of his clients owns; he has free use of it as long as he continues to do work for the man. This is a strange, sick kind of spite; he is thinking that he will make Mikey and Krista disappear the same way he did. They will be non-entities, only objects, no more human than he feels most of the time. There is something inside of him that is fundamentally, irretrievably damaged and as blood drips from his gloved fingers like raindrops, Bucky thinks, _I don’t know how to fix this._ He doesn’t think it can be fixed; therefore the desire to repair the issue is a useless desire because impossible dreams never come true. Steve is real though and he must be attended to, so Bucky focuses on that. It is, in effect, his mission.

Steve is still unconscious and Bucky stands over him, monitoring the rise and fall of his breathing. He crouches next to him, places bloody, gloved fingers against his neck and determines his heart rate is steady, healthy. Steve is in no danger of dying, but there are sirens wailing in the distance. Bucky’s hearing is superior to that of normal men, so he has even more of a head start. It’s not much of one though. Normally, he would leave Steve right where he is, it’s much safer that way, but he can’t risk it with authorities so close. Steve cannot be caught here, unconscious or otherwise. Especially not while wearing the Winter Soldier’s mask. Bucky touches the hard, molded plastic and wonders just what Steve was thinking when he put that thing on his face. On his good, _kind_ face.

With a shake of his head, Bucky scoops Steve up in his arms and holds him against his chest. He’s heavy, but not so much so that he threatens to knock Bucky down with his deadweight. A red rubber ball rolls along the ground, drifting close to his right foot and Bucky watches it go, notes how it makes no sound on the hard, dirty concrete. There are sounds though, the racket of laughing, jeering children and one little voice saying, _Hey, give it back!_ Bucky sighs and starts walking, keeping his eyes open for the ghosts those voices belong to, but there is only the red, red rubber ball and the sounds of a struggle, the grunt of air being knocked out of frail lungs. The thud of fists against flesh. The call of a stronger voice saying, _Leave ‘im alone!_ Bucky thinks that might be how he first met Steve. He wonders what ever happened to that red rubber ball. Did they play with it? Did they ever even find it? He thinks maybe they did. He thinks maybe Steve _gave_ him that red ball as thanks for saving him from yet another ass-beating in the park. Bucky looks down at Steve’s unconscious face and wishes he wasn’t wearing that goddamn mask.

At the opposite end of the alley, parked across the street is a blue Honda Accord; it has dings in the doors and the cover over one headlight is cracked. Krista, even running like a frightened rabbit, had been heading in that general direction. There was a key ring in Mikey’s front pocket that held a key with the Honda logo on the rubberized top. It’s a simple matter to figure out that the blue Accord likely belonged to Mikey and Krista. She was carrying no car keys on her person or in the small purse she had with her. Krista was running for what she thought was safety, was escape, but she would have only found herself cornered all over again. Bucky steps over the ruin of her body and thinks people are horribly useless when they panic.

Steve is warm and solid against his chest, breathing deep, head bleeding lazily from an already healing split in the scalp. He will wake up soon and before he does that, Bucky needs to get them both out of here. The blue Accord is the perfect way to do that. Bucky will also have to dispose of this vehicle, but that is another task which is easily accomplished. One of the Irish guys he’s done some work for owns a junkyard on the outskirts of the city. There is no better place for a vehicle to disappear than into a metal compactor.

He leans Steve against the side of the car long enough to take the keys out of his pocket then he unlocks the doors. He gently manhandles Steve into the backseat, ignoring the stench of unwashed bodies, dirty laundry and old food that wafts from the closed-in interior of the car. He’s smelled far worse in his lifetime. He slides into the front seat of the car, cranks it then pauses long enough to smash a hatchling cockroach with the tip of his left index finger as it scurries across the top of the steering wheel. He is almost gentle about it. Then they’re off, heading in the opposite direction of the screeching sirens that have grown even louder in the interim.

Bucky drives calmly, uses his turn signal and brakes at all red lights and stop signs. Good drivers are far less likely to draw suspicion than reckless drivers. Even without the carnage left behind in the alley, Bucky does not think it would be a good idea to be stopped in this particular vehicle. There is, after all, a dirty needle rattling around in one of the sticky-looking cup holders. If something like that is laying out in plain view then there’s no telling what might be under the seats or in the glove compartment. A cop seeing that one dirty needle would have probable cause to search the rest of the vehicle. Bucky glances at the needle again and at the next red light, he plucks it out of the cup holder and sticks it beneath the visor. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do should they get stopped anyway.

He parks the Accord on a side street that runs parallel to the street their buildings are on. It’s a two block walk from there to Steve’s building and it makes Bucky more uncomfortable with every step he carries him. Washington D.C. is a city full of cameras and though he is careful, anyone reviewing video footage will still think it’s odd to see a man carrying another man down the sidewalk after two o’clock in the morning. Bucky found a ratty, smelly knit scarf with penguins on it to wrap around Steve’s head in a makeshift balaclava to hide his face and the mask he’s still wearing. There’s another scarf wrapped around his own face. Such things are not unheard of in this kind of weather—such things as that are the _normal_ part. What doesn’t look the least bit normal is someone even Bucky’s size carrying a man as obviously large as Steve like he weighs no more than a child. It makes his skin twitch to think about all the eyes that might see the two of them out on this bizarre stroll.

Steve’s building is somewhat safer; it has cameras both outside of it and inside, but they don’t actually work and are only mounted there as deterrents. The only functioning cameras in the building are those in the elevator, but Bucky’s not taking the elevator now and Steve never does either. The residents of the building apparently liked the idea of cameras as a way to dissuade potential wrongdoers, but they also must not have liked the idea of having their activities monitored for real. That’s the thing about human beings though—they like their privacy, especially when it comes to what they consider to be their territory. People won’t admit to it, but part of that desire for privacy is their own secret thoughts of, _What if_ I’m _the one doing something bad?_ Fact is, no one wants to get caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Bucky’s building is the same way, he checked into that before he pushed DeShaun Morrison off the roof.

Steve has started to stir in earnest by the time Bucky gets him into his apartment and lays him down on his bed. He groans and turns his head to the side, lips twitching at the pain it causes. He’s not totally awake yet; Bucky estimates he has approximately five minutes before Steve is fully conscious and processing again. It’s enough time to allow himself a moment to stand there and look at Steve. He unwinds the stinking scarf, takes off Steve’s ball cap then hesitates for a second before he removes the final piece of this ensemble: the mask covering the lower part of Steve’s face.

Bucky holds it in hands that want to tremble but do not because his self-control is fierce. Once he was broken and rebuilt, the Winter Soldier was an impenetrable wall and that has served him well, no matter how much he hates it when the ghosts stir to life and show him how he was built into this thing he’s become. Bucky stares at the mask and knows its every contour even in the weak light coming through the blinds. Then he raises it to his face and holds it there; it is familiar, but that familiarity brings him no peace whatsoever. That is a good sign, despite the shudder that runs through him at having that thing so close to his skin again. Bucky Barnes will never be divorced from the Winter Soldier completely, but they are learning to cohabit the same flesh. They are merging all of their jagged edges and broken parts together into a new whole; into something that is neither one or the other, but is a violent mixture of both.

He lays the mask on Steve’s chest, let him keep it if he wants something to hold onto. Bucky can’t give him anything more than that and he thinks he understands why Steve wears it. It’s something like sentimentality, a way for Steve to bridge the gulf between the two of them if only in his mind. Bucky sighs and removes the glove from his right hand then reaches out to touch Steve’s face. He strokes his thumb in a gentle arc along Steve’s cheekbone and has to bite back an animal sound of pain when Steve turns into the touch. He loved this man once and loves him still and that— _that_ —he cannot reconcile.

The Winter Soldier is incapable of love; he is devoid of even the notion of what it means. James Winter cares nothing about love one way or another. Bucky Barnes recognizes the feeling, knows it used to be easy even if it didn’t always feel good. Now it just makes him sick, makes him angry, makes his brain twist inside his skull like an angry cat as shivers run up his spine. The ability to love was beaten out of him, erased from him, pounded out of his skull with brute force and softly whispered words.

Love is a liability. Love will not be tolerated. Love is a weakness that will stay your hand when nothing else in the world will.

Love is the most unnecessary and inconvenient emotion for an operative to have. Yet it lives inside of Bucky even now; twisted, ugly and furious, but there and recognizable even in its mutated form. This, too, is another reason he can never come near Steve when he is aware of Bucky’s presence. Love like Bucky’s is now is just as destructive as hate and Steve does not deserve love as hideous as the monster Bucky’s has become.

With a shaking breath, Bucky tells himself time is up, there are only a few narrow seconds left in this window. He has wasted too much time standing here, but he still wastes another moment of it to lean forward and press a kiss to Steve’s forehead. “Steve,” he whispers just to feel the shape of his name in his mouth. It is bitter and sweet and cuts his throat from the inside out.

Bucky walks away from him as Steve groans and rolls onto his side. He has less than thirty seconds to remove himself from the premises. As he walks out of the room, something catches Bucky’s eye and he snatches it up without ever breaking stride.


	4. Chapter 4

_I need a break_   
_From these random reality shifts_

— Coheed and Cambria   
“Random Reality Shifts”

Steve wakes in slow degrees, climbing the levels toward consciousness out of darkness toward light. He swims through a familiar dream of dancing with Bucky through the streets of London while bombs fall around them. He dreams of infinity and emptiness and yawning silence that looks like a grave he should have filled decades ago. Something is making him anxious when he should feel the most at peace, there’s a tug in the back of his mind telling him that the perimeter has been breached. He is not alone. He needs to _wake up_. Steve tries and almost manages it a couple of times, but not quite, not good enough. The longer he fails to awaken, the worse his anxiety becomes. There is a sense of something looming over him, its shadow touching him like a petting hand. He dreams of a kiss to his forehead, soft, dry lips lingering too long for it to be his mother. But no, she’s dead. She’s been dead for a very long time and Steve needs to wake up _right now_.

He comes to with a jolt and rolls himself upright into a standing, combat-ready position. His heart is thumping heavy in his chest, thick in his throat with adrenaline. There is a low, grinding headache thudding away at the back of his skull. The hair on the back of Steve’s neck is prickling, his skin is tingling. There is no one here, at least not that he can see, but Steve cannot shake the feeling he isn’t alone. It’s like there _was_ someone here and they’ve just stepped out into the hallway or gone into the bathroom, but the apartment is silent.

Wait.

Steve’s eyes widen as he strides out of the bedroom to search the apartment. He should not be here. He _was not_ here.

Steve shakes his head and pain deeper, more sullen than before responds with a rusty clang. He remembers the alley, the drug dealers and the junkies. He remembers the fight and thinking it was over. Except someone got the drop on him; they came up behind him and clobbered him with a piece of pipe or a baseball bat. There is the sense of falling, of _reeling_ , the ground rippling up to greet him. Then there’s nothing but a sea of half-sleeping sounds and the vague feel of stinking concrete under his shoulders. The fuzzy thought of, _This feels more like normal._

He does not remember waking up in the alley and finding his way back home though.

Steve gingerly feels the back of his head and finds a gash already scabbed over; by midday tomorrow it’ll be completely healed. It’s minor, really, not much to worry about at all, but the brain is a strange thing. If his attacker clocked him in just the right (wrong) spot then Steve could have very well blundered his way home without even realizing it. He walks back into his bedroom, brow furrowed in thought and looks down when he bumps something with his foot; the black mask is lying there on the carpet. As he picks it up to return it to its place in his closet, Steve vaguely remembers it falling off his chest when he first woke up; like he’d been cradling it like it was a teddy bear. Has he really gotten that pathetic? Sometimes he’s not so sure the answer is still _nooo, of course not_.

Another walkthrough of the apartment reconfirms that there’s nothing out of place or missing. Even his keys are in the same place he always puts them; in an old bowl with the Campbell’s soup logo on the bottom. Steve pieces it together in his head the best he can and what he comes up with is this: He came home in a blackout state due to head trauma, put his keys away like a good boy then laid himself down for a little nap, but had the presence of mind to remove his baseball cap and the mask. There is the question of: Did he walk all the way home _wearing_ the mask? Steve groans and rubs his forehead as a new kind of headache begins to form. He’s as susceptible to head trauma as the next guy—okay, maybe not _as_ susceptible, but hit him hard enough and he’s going to feel the effects. Case in point, tonight, where he just apparently walked for miles and has no recollection of it. He’s not much better than the best man at a bachelor party; all that’s missing are the coked-out strippers.

Steve frowns at the ugly thought; this is what he gets for actually listening sometimes when Stark is spouting off at the mouth. The man says some of the crassest, most horrible things like they’re no different than commenting on the weather. It’s really disturbing, especially now that he knows “coked-out” isn’t referring to naked ladies who’ve had one too many Coca-Colas. With a sigh, Steve cuts off that train of thought and goes to take a shower so he can wash the failure (and dried blood) off.

After his shower, Steve finds his way into the living room then into the kitchen where he makes himself a sandwich. He leans in the doorway to the kitchen and looks across the living room, out the windows. In the apartment across the way, there are lights on, the faintest, weakest glow of gold seeping through where the curtains meet in the middle. Maybe the person who lives there is blind; that would explain why they rarely turn on lights of any kind. Maybe he’s been unfair in thinking the person is some kind of lunatic or something. Steve frowns and eats his sandwich, as curious about the people living near him just as he has always been. A game he and Bucky used to play was one where they’d make up stories about their neighbors.

Steve knows it’s a pretty common game these days, but back then they thought they were geniuses for coming up with the idea. They could laugh and talk for ages just watching the goings and comings of the neighbors. Steve’s bed was pushed right up next to the windows so he got the maximum benefit of the breeze. It worried his mother, but Steve spent at least half his time in bed and without the window to see out of, he would’ve been so lonely, so much more isolated. That close up, all he had to was roll over and like magic, there was the world, loud and bright and flashing with life. Bucky would lay sprawled across the foot of the bed with his chin propped in the windowsill, face bathed in sunlight or moonlight and they’d watch the world go by together. It was the best when Bucky would turn his head and rest his cheek against the chipped paint and grin at him. The sunshine would slant over his face then, light his eyes up from the inside out, turn the stormy Atlantic blue of his irises clear and smooth.

It was on such a day that they were laying there together discussing Steve’s new neighbors. According to them, Mrs. Schwartz was such a topnotch canary that every gin mill from Manhattan to Atlantic City wanted her to come sing for them. Mr. Schwartz, however, wouldn’t have it; she sang only at his clubs. She could go places in the world if only he’d give her room to stretch her wings, but he wasn’t about to let his prize bird fly out of his reach. She was a moll in chains, Steve declared, imagination running on overdrive courtesy of the little intrigue they’d made up and the book on Greek mythology he’d been reading (and most likely a lingering bit of a fever as well). Mrs. Schwartz was no Prometheus, but her plight was just about as pitiable, Steve thought.

Bucky had nodded along and very solemnly said, “Yeah and it’s only worse ‘cause Mr. Schwartz is a midget.”

“He is not,” Steve said. “I saw him. He’s at least a six footer.”

Bucky shook his head and looked at Steve like he was thinking, _Poor little guy, fever’s fried his brains for sure this time._ “No, you dink,” Bucky said. “Don’t ya get it?”

“Nah, I guess I don’t, Buck,” Steve said. “Clue me in, genius.”

“Fine, I will,” Bucky said, turning to face him, propping up on his elbow. “Schwartz only looks tall ‘cause he’s walkin’ on stilts. Just all the time, walkin’ on wood stilts. He thinks he’s got everybody tricked, but he don’t got nobody fooled, not really. It’s just they’re all too scared of him to say much about it. But behind his back they call him something.”

“What’s that?” Steve asked.

“Little Big Man,” Bucky said. “They said everything’s to scale, too, if you catch my meaning.”

“What?” Steve frowned then thought _tiny man_. Tiny man equaled… “Ah, jeezum, Buck, why ya gotta make it nasty?” But he was laughing and then Bucky was laughing and Bucky was beautiful and Steve kissed him and in that moment the world really did stop.

In his Washington D.C. apartment, Steve sucks in a harsh, dragging breath and blinks rapidly. He gets lost in his memories more than he would ever tell anyone except maybe Peggy if it came up. Steve thinks—no, he _knows_ —that she would understand; Sam or Natasha never could, Fury would tell him to let it go. He’d say, _Move on, Cap._ Tony would probably say he needed hug therapy; he’d say, _I can recommend a guy, if you want. I mean, I don’t want to threaten your heteronormative masculinity, but hugging can be really helpful,_ which is about where Steve would start losing his patience with Tony Stark.

The thing is, despite any perceived coldness or callousness or well, whatever, on any of their parts, they would actually mean well (except for Stark’s little jabs, Steve’s sure those are meant to offend and only offend—and they work). He would nod, say they were right, he’d tell the one lie that isn’t totally a lie at all and say, “I’m trying to do that,” because he’s trying all the time. Trying not to choke. Trying not to drown. Trying not to just sit right down and have himself a good old-fashioned crying jag that is not the least bit becoming of anyone, but especially not of Captain America. Because _damnit_ , he is lonely and he misses the life he had, he misses his best friend and his best girl and he misses what it was like to have Bucky kiss him back or Peggy’s wry little smirk-smile and here— _now_ —it is empty in so many ways.

“Stop,” Steve croaks to himself.

He rubs his eyes and notices the lights are off across the way, the curtains are open and the blinds are cracked once more. Steve makes himself move and gets as far as the sofa where he sits down with a thump and huffed out breath. After a little while of sitting there playing the role of Captain Couch Potato very well, Steve turns on the sofa to stretch out and lie down. Being knocked out and actually sleeping are two different things and he’s whipped after the night he’s had. In the morning he will get up and do daytime things; he thinks he’ll head to the gym for a little while then over to the library. As Steve drifts off to sleep, he’s thinking he will get some art books, start educating himself on different styles and techniques to try. Maybe the next time he props up a canvas, he won’t end up painting Bucky. One has nothing to do with the other, but to Steve’s half-asleep mind, it makes perfect sense.

He wakes to the sun streaming in his face so the first thing he sees is glowing orange and the red branches of the capillaries like skinny trees in his eyelids. _It’s a forest fire in there,_ Steve thinks dumbly then opens his eyes. The light is much gentler with his eyes open and he feels better for its presence; the daytime doesn’t harbor as many phantoms as the night seems to. It must be some primitive part of the human brain that finds comfort and safety in daylight, the reaction so ingrained in most people that sunshine automatically boosts their spirits. He wonders if Bucky feels gladness when he sees the sunlight, wonders if he even notices it at all. Then Steve tells himself to stop thinking about the sun because his spirits don’t need boosting. However, his sorry carcass really could use a good, hot cup of coffee and something to eat.

After drinking a pot of coffee and having himself a truly impressive breakfast, Steve goes to the gym to work off some of his frustrations. Several punching bags die for the cause, but by the time he heads out for the library, Steve feels much better than he did the night before. It was a weird, rough night, but those aren’t altogether uncommon. Last night, while bad, was nowhere near the worst it has been since he woke up. What bugs him most about last night isn’t all of the huge, strange thoughts walking through his head; it’s not knowing what happened _after_ he got clubbed like a baby seal. Did he go anywhere else? Do anything? How many people saw him walking back from Southeast with the Winter Soldier’s mask on?

It’s driving him up the wall, but he’s also hesitant to go looking for answers. It is true, Steve reasons, that if anyone had seen and recognized him weaving his way through the mean streets then someone definitely would have said something about it by now. There’d be footage on the news or online because _of course_ someone in this century would have taken a picture or some video of the incident. Then again, it wouldn’t have been that much of an incident; to anyone looking he’d be taken for just another crazy person, not mistaken for the Winter Soldier or anything nearly so dramatic. The Winter Soldier is a secret that has been kept; there was no record of him in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s (and subsequently HYDRA’s) files that Natasha dumped on the internet. He showed up as a black-clad blur in some shaky video taken from the overpass fight, but even most of that has been wiped from existence. Only a select few were ever meant to know about the Winter Soldier and that has not changed. Bucky’s existence is still a secret, he is still a myth, still a ghost that’s left to rattle his chains inside of Steve day-in-day-out.

Most of the rest of Steve’s day is spent wandering around the stacks of the library. He thinks his thoughts and tries not to let them get him down and mostly they don’t, but the funny thing is this: Now that he spends at least half his time reminiscing with himself about the old days (and good god, to him it still feels like some of this stuff was just a few years ago) Steve has discovered that the memories that hurt the most aren’t the bad ones. It’s the good ones that tear him up, leave him gutted and gasping from the pain of it even as they make him smile and laugh softly to himself.

All of that is forgotten when Steve finds the John Carter of Mars books on a shelf in the sci-fi section. Steve read a lot due to having spent a great deal of time laid up in bed with one ailment or another. The entire series is there and Steve takes the first three books—no sense in being greedy—down with eager hands. More wandering through literature finds him face-to-face with _The Sound and the Fury_ by William Faulkner. Faulkner was a little heavy for him when he was younger, but he still remembers loving the guy’s writing.

Like a lot of kids in his day, sick or healthy, Steve didn’t finish high school either—too many absences, too many days where he was sent home with a busted nose and a fat lip or because he wheezed himself unconscious during lunch. He finally said to hell with it because he wasn’t dumb and he made good grades, but he was still being held back time and time again due to too many absences. If he had kept at it he might have graduated high school by twenty-five and there was no point in that; hell, it was just plain disheartening. However, he did end up more well-read than most sickly dropouts, though not as well read as some kids like him and that’s because he had drawing tablets of cheap pulp paper and Bucky Barnes to occupy him. They were better company than Edgar Rice Burroughs’s characters ever could have been.

Steve goes home after he’s through at the library and has a late lunch (steak!) then settles down on the couch with the Faulkner book. The reading is a lot smoother now that he’s older and understands the concepts better. Soon, he’s lost in the book, only stopping long enough to turn on the lamp beside him. It’s going on eight o’clock when a knock at the door startles him so badly he drops the book.

“Darn,” Steve mutters as he picks it up, just knowing he’s lost his place. “Coming!” he calls as he flips through the book, hoping to find where he was. It only takes a second, which is a relief and he marks his place before going to answer the door.

“What’s up, Cap?” Sam says when Steve opens the door. Sam holds up a twelve pack of beer with one hand; there’s a pizza with a stack of three Blu-ray discs on top of it balanced on the palm of his other hand.

“Hey, Sam,” Steve says. He has the feeling he forgot something to do with movies, pizza and beer. _Movie night_. He and Sam have been doing it once a week for months now and he just totally let it slip his mind. Crap.

Sam frowns at him. “It’s movie night. You forgot didn’t you?”

“You know how us old people are,” Steve says, tapping his temple as he steps back to let Sam enter. “Our short term memories are shorter than those of most.”

“Pfft,” Sam says. “You are not senile.”

“I might be,” Steve says. He grins at the look Sam gives him. “I was reading and lost track of time is all. What are we watching tonight?”

“Tonight I thought we should do the eighties,” Sam says. “It was my sister’s idea, really, but she made a good point. The eighties were a weird decade, but there were some iconic films came out then, too.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks, curiosity piqued. “Like what? I’ve already seen _War Games_.”

“Well, there was that one, but I’m talking about something a little more painful than that,” Sam says.

“Painful?” Steve raises his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Teen angst and Molly Ringwald never are,” Sam says. “But look, you still need to see these. I only brought one Ringwald movie anyway and it’s actually not that bad. I’ll subject you to _Sixteen Candles_ some other time.”

Steve does not think this evening’s movies sound at all like a good time, but he’s game to try it. Sam’s not led him astray too bad except he didn’t really like the _Trouble Man_ album; he won’t ever say that to Sam though because he loves it so much. He takes a beer when Sam passes him one then sits down on the couch while Sam sets up the first movie. Steve knows how to work his Blu-ray player and all well enough, but he’s still a bit leery of modern electronics. Sam knows his way around Steve’s television better than he does and maybe that should bother him, but it doesn’t. While Sam does that, Steve grabs a towel from the kitchen and puts it on the middle couch cushion before setting the pizza on it.

“What’s up first?” Steve asks.

“ _Less Than Zero_ ,” Sam says. “I promise you, this is one eighties movie that is worth its status as a cult classic. It’s fucked up, man.”

Steve cuts his eyes to the side at him for saying the f-word and Sam laughs. “Sorry,” Steve says. “I’m working on it.”

“You guys didn’t curse back then? Like, not at all?” Sam asks. “Because I find that hard to believe.”

“We did… some,” Steve says. “A lot of guys in the old neighborhood had filthy mouths, really. Then there was the Army, of course. I think it was more my mom telling me to watch my language all the time and it just rubbed off more than anything else.” He smiles to himself, thinking back to the old days in Brooklyn. “I remember this one time when we were about fourteen, Bucky’s mom overheard him calling Mr. Jules next door a rat-faced son of a you-know-what and she was _so mad_. She washed his mouth out with soap and the rest of the day he swore his spit was still bubbly and tasted like Ivory and—”

Steve catches himself and clears his throat. Sam’s watching him, eyes kind, face concerned and he’s curious, too, interested in what Steve has to say, but Steve doesn’t like talking about those things; sharing those memories. They’re the kind that hurt so bad, the ones that tie him up in knots and strangle him. The memory of Bucky spitting foam and spluttering, _C’mon, Ma, lemme go!_ makes his chest ache with a bad mix of sadness and the urge to laugh.

“My grandma did that to me once,” Sam says after a minute of brittle silence. “She used Dawn dishwashing liquid on me and my sister both. We were trying out saying fun stuff like ‘motherfucker’ and ‘whore’, laughing our heads off and feeling all kinds of grown-up. Then Grandmama caught us and reminded us that were way too young for that kind of shit. To this day just the smell of Dawn puts the fear of God into me.”

Steve snorts soft laughter and relaxes back against the sofa as he sips his beer. Sam knows how to take things in stride, how to leave Steve alone when he wants to be left alone and he does it all with some kind of strange magical ability that some people seem to have: Sam leaves Steve alone by not leaving him _alone_ ; he can sit right beside Steve and still let him keep his thoughts to himself without trying to drag everything out of him.

“You ready for the movie now?” Sam asks, flipping up the lid of the pizza box with one hand, the remote control in the other, thumb hovering over PLAY.

“Fire at will,” Steve says as he grabs a slice for himself.

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Sam says and presses the button.

Steve chews his pizza, amused and watches as the menu screen comes up.

The movie selection Sam came up with for tonight puts Steve through his paces. _Less Than Zero_ is horribly disturbing and at times downright disgusting, but the end breaks his heart so badly he actually chokes out, “No,” at the last scene of Julian in the car.

Sam gives him a sympathetic nod and says, “Don’t ever read the book though. This is one case of where the movie is _way_ better.”

Steve just nods; he still feels numb, kind of wrung out and drained. The last image of the three friends in the car, the dirty gold California sand blowing all around them is stuck in his head. He could easily insert himself behind the wheel of that car, Bucky between him and either Natasha or Sam. The tragedy of it is that raw and in its way, relatable to Steve’s own bad ride on the merry-go-round of life.

“What’s next?” Steve asks.

“ _The Lost Boys_ ,” Sam says. “When I was a kid it scared the crap out of me. Now I just think it’s funny and so, so dumb.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “I could stand some funny stuff after that.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says as he gets up to put the movie in. “That’s why I lined it up for the second movie.”

Steve gets them each another beer and gnaws at a cold slice of pizza as _The Lost Boys_ starts. He can’t get the evil vampire David’s sleazy voice out of his head, _You’re one of us now, Michael._ By the end, he is wide-eyed and white-knuckled and feels that Sam has betrayed him in some fundamental, yet unnameable way.

“That was _not_ a funny movie,” Steve says. “It was violent, gory and… and—” He scowls at the screen, listening to the song playing at the end credits and committing it to memory to look for later. He likes the _song_ , but he never wants to see the movie again. Ever. “That was scary,” he finishes.

Sam looks genuinely surprised. “Seriously, you thought that was scary? For real? I mean, come on, Steve, that one little dude bled _glitter_.”

“It was scary,” Steve insists. “It looked so realistic. Except the glitter— Wait. Was that _really_ glitter? I wondered why they were so sparkly after… after… _that_.”

“Yeah, it was glitter,” Sam says. “You’ve seen war, real action and you thought that was realistic?”

“In a scary movie way, yes,” Steve says.

“The effects were good for that time, but they’re not really— _Oh_.” Sam’s eyes get big and he laughs even as he looks apologetic. “Damn, Steve, I’m sorry, really. I didn’t think about… Crap.”

“Didn’t think about what?” Steve asks.

“I didn’t think about the fact that the last horror movie you saw was probably Bela Lugosi playing Dracula,” Sam says.

Steve thinks a minute and then says, “Actually, I think it was _The Ghost of Frankenstein_.”

“Even better,” Sam says. “You’re not as um… you know… desensitized to that stuff as people are nowadays.”

“Thanks,” Steve says dryly. “I feel like a toddler sometimes.”

“You’re not like a kid at all,” Sam says. “Don’t think like that. You’re just out of time and in some ways that means you’re out of your element. You’re catching up though and look: in a couple of years, we’ll watch _The Lost Boys_ again and you’ll see how stupid it really is. You’ll laugh then.”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, then he nods. “But you’ve got a deal.”

“Good,” Sam says. “Now, time for the third movie. I saved the best for last.”

“All right,” Steve says. “Hit me with it.”

“You got it,” Sam says.

 _The Breakfast Club_ delights Steve. He loves the characters, finds he can identify with them all in little ways, but Brian the Brain reminds him mostly of himself. There’s a mix of Bucky in both Andrew the Jock and Bender the Delinquent. The end scene of the movie makes Steve grin and slap his knee as he exclaims, “Murder!”

“What the hell?” Sam jumps and looks over at him. He furrows his brow in confusion and maybe a bit of disappointment. “Murder? I thought you’d like it.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to be confused. “I _do_ like it.”

“So why are you hollering ‘murder’? People start screaming that, they usually don’t mean anything positive,” Sam says.

And finally, Steve gets to laugh at him for not knowing what’s going on. “It’s slang,” he says. “Old slang, obviously, but back in the thirties when someone would say ‘murder’ what they meant was ‘wow’ or I guess you’d say ‘cool’ now, but it’s all the same. Then if you wanted someone to show you a good time, you could say, ‘Kill me!’ instead.”

“Huh,” Sam says with a slow smile. “I get it now. You guys were warped.”

“So warped,” Steve says agreeably. He holds up a finger and adds, “Don’t forget repressed, too. We invented that.”

“I thought Catholics invented that,” Sam says.

“Well, we perfected it,” Steve says.

“I think the fifties perfected it, but you guys really got the ball rolling,” Sam says. “After the twenties anyway. Those were some wild times.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says fondly. “We had fun.”

He’d been too little in the roaring twenties to do much of anything other than play make-believe. He and Bucky spent a lot of time pretending they were hip gangsters out in their spiffy duds running contraband whiskey under cover of darkness. They’d pretend to be driving cars too fast with the lights off, daredevils with a lady on their mind and money waiting up ahead as soon as they delivered their hooch. Sometimes they’d crash their cars and die dramatic deaths on their living room floors over and over and over again. There were entire summer afternoons spent wrecking cars that were really armchairs and dying in ditches that were really threadbare area rugs. There were shootouts with the cops, too, of course: _You’ll never take me alive, coppers!_ and they’d go down in a hail of bullets, Tommy guns firing at the ceiling as they fell to their knees and died with much more grace than a person made into Swiss cheese by actual bullets ever would.

As children they had thought that to be the height of entertainment; then they grew into men who became soldiers and learned those really were the foolish games of silly little boys. Even knowing all of that doesn’t dilute the love Steve has for those long, humid Brooklyn summers where they crashed cars and took turns flailing and carrying on at their most macho melodramatic. _Don’t you die on me, you S.O.B.!_ And all the false bravado of, _If anyone’s gonna punch your ticket then it’s gonna be me! You hold on, understand?!_

Steve’s laughing without realizing it until Sam lays a hand on his shoulder. “You care to share with the rest of the class? Because, you know, if you don’t share then you just look like a crazy person.”

“Sometimes I think maybe I am a crazy person,” Steve says through hiccoughs of laughter; still thinking about those games, about how they made _all_ the sound effects. Gunfire. Screeching brakes. Cries of pain. Elegant, manly dying gasps and rattles. They were seriously disturbed children, but then again, most all children are seriously disturbed when it comes to playing at death because to them death is only an idea, not a real thing.

“You know what they say, right?” Sam asks.

“No, I guess I don’t,” Steve says.

“They say if you _think_ you’re crazy then you really aren’t,” Sam says. “Crazy people don’t think of themselves as crazy because that’s just the way they are. To themselves, they’re sane and it’s everybody else who’s nuts.”

“That makes sense.” Steve believes Sam has a good point though he also thinks there are exceptions to every rule. More and more often he thinks he might be one of those exceptions. There’s nothing overt about whatever kind of craziness he might have, but it’s there. He can feel it like an itch in his teeth, a rusted hinge squeaking in the back of his mind like it’s being pushed by a strong wind. Wind like the rush of air caused by a train rocketing its way across a mountain overpass.

“Exactly,” Sam says. “But the offer is always open, day or night: if you feel like you need to talk, even if that means you rant and rave and scream, I’m here for you whenever. I know you’ve got a lot going on in there and it might do you some good to get it off your chest.”

“I’ll think about it for sure,” Steve says. They both know he’s lying, but Sam doesn’t call him on it because he thinks Sam gets it.

Sam looks around the apartment, gaze landing on the easel still sitting in front of the window before he looks back at Steve. “So, how’s that going?” he asks, tipping his head back toward the easel.

Steve thinks about the faint glint of metal in cyanotic moonlight, the lethal glint of moisture in the eye peering through fallen, greasy hair to stare at him; both a challenge and an accusation in it. He shakes his head and shrugs. “Not too well. I sketched a little bit, but I didn’t actually get around to painting anything.”

“Well, hey, it’s a start,” Sam says as he gets up from the sofa. “It is also late and I need to get my tired ass back to the house.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, mind drifting back to the painting of Bucky leaning against his bedroom wall, hidden like a dirty secret. That eye watching him while he sleeps, while he dreams of what never was. While he— Steve’s heart jumps in his chest and he frowns, mouth jerking down at the corners like a spasm. He hasn’t been in his bedroom since the night before other than to make his bed because he just couldn’t leave that alone. The problem isn’t that though; the problem is that now that he’s thinking about it, he cannot recall seeing the painting leaning there against the wall just inside the door.

“Hey, you all right?” Sam asks.

“Huh?” Steve says, cutting his eyes up to look at him. He blinks and shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, just zoned out for a second.”

“It’s cool,” Sam says, but he looks concerned again. Steve wishes he didn’t worry so much. “We all do it.”

“My memory lane is a long one,” Steve says.

“You should tell me more about it one day,” Sam says.

“Sure, no problem,” Steve says as he gets up to walk Sam to the door.

Sam lights up at that and says, “Awesome. You’re a pretty good storyteller, Cap.”

“Thanks,” Steve says. “Maybe I’ll write my memoirs one day.”

“I’d buy that,” Sam says as he steps into the hallway. “A lot of people would.”

Sam is genuinely interested in Steve’s stories from the past; not just of the war, but of how things were back then. Steve’s the real deal, he was there, he lived it and has firsthand knowledge of how things _really_ were back in the 20s, 30s and about half of the 40s. Sometimes Steve doesn’t mind sharing things with Sam, it’s not that… except it is at the same time. The issue doesn’t lie in telling stories to a friend, the issue lies in that it makes Steve feel like Sam’s grandpa telling him stories of, _Back when I was a boy, we had to walk five miles to school and ten miles back. Barefoot. In the snow. Kids these days don’t have a clue…_ Yeah, it makes Steve feel _old_. Real old.

“I’ll make a note of it,” Steve says. “Thanks for coming by, Sam. And hey… Do you mind if I borrow _The Breakfast Club_?”

Sam grins. “Not at all.” He passes the movie to Steve then slaps him on the shoulder. “Goodnight.”

“’Night,” Steve says.

The second he has closed and locked the door, Steve spins around and rushes to the bedroom. He held it together pretty well there, but it was beginning to strain on his nerves to wait Sam out. He couldn’t very well run to his bedroom with Sam standing there watching him though. That would’ve looked suspicious.

When he flips on his bedroom light and really looks, his breath catches in his throat. He didn’t imagine it. The painting of Bucky is gone. Which means Steve didn’t walk home alone from Southeast last night. Maybe he didn’t walk home at all; maybe someone _brought him home_. Someone came inside his apartment and laid him down on his bed. They took off his cap and the mask and when they left, they took the painting with them. Steve didn’t dream there was someone in his apartment last night or the way the air felt disturbed and heavy like someone had just walked out of the room.

Steve rakes his fingers through his hair and wonders what the hell he’s going to do now.


	5. Chapter 5

_He closes his eyes and drowns in death again._

— Conrad Aiken   
“The House of Dust”

Murder can be a subtle art as much as it can be a wild act of brutality; it’s all about the situation and how you see fit to utilize it. Bucky was programmed to be both unobtrusive as well as massively destructive. He’s made it look like people died of heart attacks as much as he’s made it look like his target exploded. He can kill from a distance or he can kill up close. All of it is about timing, finesse and above all else, it’s about skill.

Bucky came into this job of his by accident, after Project Insight he became just another street rat festering in the shadows. He was one of the dim people, the ones no one sees or pays attention to. Dim people hear and see many things though and one night he overheard the right bit of information shared on a dark service road. He was huddled behind a concrete pillar, calculating whether or not he had enough money left to buy a cup of coffee when a car pulled up. It was soon joined by another, sleeker vehicle painted black as oil with bulletproof, tinted windows. One man said to another that there was a man by the name of Dempsey Halloran that had crossed their organization one time too many. The man in the sleek, oily car said, “Put the word out, it’s an open contract. The first person to ice Halloran gets a payday.”

That had caught Bucky’s attention and he’d sat up straighter, an idea beginning to form even as the man in the black car said, “Make sure they know that the contract is payable on death only, no advances.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Giovinazzo,” the person in the other car agreed. “I’ll get the word out to our boys and they’ll spread it around to their crews and on down the chain.”

“Good,” Giovinazzo had growled, his voice a gravelly purr of sound. “I want that fuckin’ Mick’s head.”

Bucky took the man at his word, spent a few hours asking around—and pushing around when he needed to—about where he could find Dempsey Halloran. He’d found him at a bar called The Boonies and waited until he staggered outside after last call. Bucky grabbed him right there by his car, dragged him into the adjacent alleyway and dispatched him with quiet efficiency. The messy part came next; he used one of his remaining thin, black carbon steel razor-sharp blades to saw off Dempsey Halloran’s head. Decapitation is a bit less messy when the person is already dead, there’s less splatter anyway, but Halloran had been a fresh kill, so there was still plenty of gore. A little dumpster diving had provided Bucky with a black garbage bag filled mostly with paper that he emptied before tossing his prize into it. Then away he’d gone again, off to ask more questions, this time about where he could find Mr. Giovinazzo because he thought he had something he might want to see.

He found Giovinazzo in the upstairs office of one of his nightclubs and was shown in after he said he had something for Mr. Giovinazzo concerning Halloran. The slab of meat blocking the door had peeked inside the bag, retched then told Bucky to wait where he was. A few minutes later, he had been shown in and he presented Dempsey Halloran’s head to Antony Giovinazzo who did not retch. His dark eyes had crinkled up at the corners and he’d laughed, then he’d asked for Bucky’s name.

In that smoky office, James Winter had been born and Bucky had walked away with ten grand stuffed inside his ratty coat. He’d rented a motel room and taken the first shower he’d had in a month. The next morning he had gone out and bought new clothes, nothing extravagant, but clean and functional. Then he’d gone to get a haircut and after that, he’d bought the phone he uses for business. That night he’d gone back to Mr. Giovinazzo at the man’s request and picked up another job where he was required to be a little less blatant in his methods.

The rest, they say, is history.

These days, James Winter is a smart dresser who wears dark suits with silk vests and tasteful ties. He owns a gold pocket watch that he keeps in the little pocket on his vests. People remark on how he’s such a classic dresser, almost old-fashioned, but in a good way. James Winter slicks his hair back and wears supple black leather gloves no matter what. If anyone asks him why, he says it’s because he’s got scars on his hands, _An accident with hot grease when I was a kid._ He seldom ever speaks unless spoken to first and even then he doesn’t have a lot to say.

People fear James Winter in a way that is both different and exactly like the way people feared the Winter Soldier. The difference to Bucky is that the Winter Soldier never got paid for the murders he committed, he was never compensated for being the bearer of suffering and mercilessness. And in murder, Bucky has found, there is a whole lot of money to be made, money that makes him a self-made _man_. There is also serenity in murder, a way to shut up the screeching nightmares inside his mind that sometimes spill out into the world and walk across the floor. He’s always known the part about serenity though and sometimes thinks it is part of his programming.

Other times he thinks it’s the only way he can suffocate the rage inside of him just enough that it doesn’t kill _him_ because it waits like a demon. He decided ages ago that if he is to live at all then he must find a way to feed the beast inside of him and he has done that. _He_ made the choice this time, no one made it for him and he takes comfort in that. His head might be a mess, but his mind is his own again at long last, no matter how damaged it has become (and it is, it’s nothing but wreckage in there, blood and scar tissue built up into a volcano).

This latest job has taken him to a gorgeous mansion with ocean views and a private beach in Margate, New Jersey. He’s been called in to do a job for the Khasbulatov Family. His intel says they’ve made quite the name for themselves in the last ten years along the east coast, infringing on the Italians and the Irish; pissing everyone off in the meantime. That’s the other good thing about when he found this job though: Bucky didn’t know it at the time, but he got in on the ground floor of what’s turned into a really swell mob war. Business is good and that pleases him because it keeps him busy, feeds the volcano god of his mind.

He’s currently standing in an office that is nothing short of ostentatious, looking at a Russian man by the name of Aloysha Khasbulatov. He has thick salt-and-pepper hair, piercing blue eyes the color of glaciers and muscle that is slowly going to fat. There are tattoos on his hands and his knuckles that are partially hidden by heavy gold rings. He’s a tacky dragon sitting atop a mountain of gold and he knows it. When he smiles at Bucky, there is a wink of gold from his mouth as well. 

“You know why you are here?” Aloysha’s accent is as thick as the hair on his tattooed knuckles and Bucky’s stomach clenches slightly at the sound of it.

“Yes,” he says, displaying none of his displeasure at being in this man’s company.

“You know what you are to do?” Aloysha asks.

“Yes,” Bucky says. “You want to send a message.”

“ _Da_ ,” Aloysha says. He shakes his head. “Sorry, I mean, yes. My English…” He spreads his hands out palm-up in a helpless gesture.

“I understand,” Bucky says.

Aloysha nods, he thinks Bucky means he understands his English is not so good, not that Bucky can understand Russian just fine. He speaks it and several other languages fluently. It’s necessary in his line of work—or rather, it was necessary, these days, not so much though it’s still a useful skill to have.

“How do you want it done?” Bucky asks.

Aloysha shrugs one meaty shoulder. “However it is you see fit, Mr. Winter. I hear you are very… efficient. I trust you to use your imagination to make it good.”

“Of course,” Bucky says.

Aloysha nods again then turns to look at the man standing beside him. He speaks low, rapid Russian to him and Bucky listens to every word. Aloysha does not trust Bucky, not even a little bit. Bucky is a stranger and an unfriendly one at that. He has been hired because he is supposedly the best for this job. He can get to people when no one else can and the man he has been hired to kill—Niccolo Romanello—is a hard man to get to. He’s careful. His house is like a fortress. He never goes out unless he’s surrounded by his very own goon squad. He didn’t make it so high up in the ranks of the mafia by being stupid and incautious. Aloysha does not _like_ Bucky, that is the gist of it and he is asking his henchman to follow him, to make sure he does his job with no _complications_. Translation: If Bucky so much as twitches the wrong way, Vassily is to put a bullet in his head instead.

The whole damn thing is annoying, but Bucky doesn’t let on one bit until Aloysha waves his hand at him. “You go now, do job,” he says. “Make me proud then you come back, get your money and we have drink to celebrate.”

Bucky dips his head in a nod and turns to walk away. Over his shoulder he softly calls, “ _Uvidimsya_.” _See you later._

It’s worth it just to hear the choked silence weighing heavily in the air as he walks calmly out of the room and down the winding staircase, stepping over the wasted party girl passed out halfway up the stairs.

He does his job on Niccolo Romanello in a few easy steps.

Step one: Disable the security system, including alarms on the grounds and the house as well as cameras. That’s easy and once he locates the power box to the system—it’s separate from the main fuse box—Bucky has it disabled in 31.67 seconds.

Step two: Take out the guards. He slips up behind the first one as he’s making his rounds of the property and breaks his neck. He does the same to three more outside guards.

Step three: Use the key he takes off one of the guards to gain ingress to the domicile via side doors—one that leads into the multi-car garage, a second that leads into the back hallway of the house from the garage.

Step four: Dispatch the two guards inside of the house. He slams his black carbon steel blade into the base of each of their skulls at a forty-five degree angle and scrambles their medulla oblongata. That way the only thing Bucky has to worry about noise-wise is the sound of them hitting the floor. That is easily taken care of by catching them before they do so and gently laying them down.

Step six is the money shot: Gaining entry to Niccolo Romanello’s bedroom and that is as simple as picking a lock. Romanello is on top of a girl at least thirty years his junior, jackhammering away at her while she stares up at the ceiling and cries out, “Fuck me, Daddy! Fuck your dirty slut!” She sounds enthusiastic, but her posture and fixed stare strongly suggest otherwise.

Then she sees Bucky and screams. He shoots her in the temple, marking her off as collateral damage while Romanello throws himself to the side and out of the line of fire. He’s a sly old fox, he knows very well what Bucky is about and all it took was the girl’s scream to get him rolling off of her right to the gun on the opposite nightstand. Bucky puts another bullet in the nightstand right by the gun, kicking up splinters that bury themselves in Romanello’s wrinkled hand.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Whaddaya want?” Romanello asks, cradling his hand against his flabby old man tits. He’s glaring at Bucky, but keeping his cool admirably well given the circumstances.

“I don’t want anything,” Bucky says.

“Bullshit,” Romanello says. “Who sent you?”

“Aloysha Khasbulatov,” Bucky says simply because it doesn’t matter if Romanello knows his name; he won’t live to tell it. The look in Romanello’s eyes says that he knows this as well.

“Fuck you, fuckin’ Russian scumbag piece of shit,” Romanello says.

“I’m not Russian,” Bucky says. “I’m from Brooklyn.”

Romanello scoffs then spits at Bucky, pure venom in his eyes as Bucky rounds the bed. Romanello lunges for the gun again—predictable—and Bucky puts a bullet through his elbow when his angle shifts. Romanello screams in pain, but Bucky’s not listening anymore. He uses his left hand to grab Romanello by the back of his skinny neck and lifts him up like a rag doll.

“It’s nothing personal,” Bucky says as he carries Romanello, screaming, cursing and bleeding, from his bedroom. He thinks he knows _exactly_ how to earn his payment on this guy. Khasbulatov wants to send a message, he wants a show and video evidence—Bucky has a burner phone provided for just that reason. So, he’ll give the Russian what he wants.

He ties Romanello to one of his pretty cherry wood dining room chairs with zip ties he brought for this express purpose then drags both the chair and its occupant out to the back yard. He then douses Romanello with gasoline siphoned from the Lincoln Town Car in the garage. Romanello still curses and spits at him again. This time an unleaded-scented gob hits Bucky’s right cheek and he leaves him long enough to wash it off; he can’t risk any flare-ups. When he comes back, he takes a book of matches out of his pocket that he’s been carrying around for weeks with no good reason as to why. Now it feels like kismet that he kept them because deciding to light Romanello up like a torch would be impossible otherwise.

With very slow deliberation, Bucky selects a match, pulls it out and looks right into Romanello’s eyes while he strikes it on his front teeth (a trick learned in childhood that never failed to impress the ladies). The match sputters to life with a hiss and tiny sizzle and only then does Romanello lose his bravado and start screaming, “No! You muthafucka! No!”

Bucky tosses the match then takes out the phone and begins to record Niccolo Romanello’s death by fire. As the man writhes and screams, smoke and the stink of bubbling fat filling the air, some of Bucky’s ghosts come out to dance in the pale moonlight streaming through the limbs of the big old trees dotting the property. Bucky holds the phone steady in his hand as he turns his head to watch Steve’s ghost laughing up at the sky. Frosty smoke streams out of Bucky’s mouth as he stands beside him and laughs, too. Bucky frowns at the sight of them and it’s only by sheer force of will that he doesn’t reel backward from the force of the memory as it slams into him, a jumble of images that his brain processes and catalogs into order as quickly as possible:

One year it came a heavy snow, not a blizzard, but a steady fall of large, showy snowflakes and cotton fluff drifts. It was beautiful even if it was bitterly cold. One evening, Bucky walked over to Steve’s apartment. He could see his pale face in the window before he ever climbed the stairs, but Steve wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at the snow.

 _Where’s your ma?_ Bucky asked when Steve came to the door.

 _She picked up an extra shift. Said she wanted to make Christmas good this year._ Steve’s eyes were doubtful and hopeful at the same time. When he smiled at Bucky, it was purely real in its optimism. Then he looked around Bucky again at the pretty snowflakes falling, glittering in the impoverished light of their neighborhood.

The gentle, playful wind that cut around Bucky made Steve shiver and cough, hunching into his ratty old wool pea coat. It was a coat meant for a child, not a 20 year old, but Steve was so small and frail. The year before, Bucky had gotten a hand me down coat from a cousin of his. It came down a little past mid-thigh, was thick and heavy wool with a satin lining that felt luxe even if it was stained in places. It was big on Bucky, but he liked it that way; he could wrap it almost double over his torso on extra cold days.

Bucky took his coat off and draped it around Steve’s narrow shoulders with a flourish. It came down to his ankles almost and hung on him like a heavy sack. Steve made a startled sound and looked up at Bucky. _What’re you doing, Buck?_

 _Grab your gloves and let’s go for a walk, huh?_ Bucky said.

 _Won’t you be cold?_ Steve asked.

 _I’ll live,_ Bucky said. He had on a thick sweater and an undershirt, had his gloves and cap and scarf. As an afterthought, he took the scarf off and draped it around Steve’s scrawny neck to go with the coat; Steve didn’t have a scarf that year. He’d probably lost it in an alley somewhere when he was scrapping like the stubborn little terrier he was.

 _If you’re sure…_ Steve still didn’t look sure though. He looked worried about Bucky and boy, was that a laugh. Bucky still appreciated it though.

 _I’m positive,_ Bucky said. He tipped his head back toward the night, toward the waiting snow. _Now c’mon before I change my mind._

Steve grinned then and went to get his gloves. Bucky’s coat swirled around him as he trotted off.

When his gloves were on, they went out into the snow and walked down to the park and stood where the baseball diamond was in the summer. Steve was where the pitcher’s mound was, head tipped back to stare up at the snow that caught in his long lashes and made him blink rapidly, but he laughed about it. Bucky wrapped his arms tightly around himself and stood back, just watching. He liked the way Steve looked standing there, smiling in the snow and wearing Bucky’s coat.

In the glittering light of Romanello’s makeshift funeral pyre, Bucky watches phantom snowflakes swirl down from the sky. Romanello is well and truly dead, so Bucky stops recording video on the phone. His job is done and he should get a move on, head back to Khasbulatov and pick up his payment. Instead, he stays a little longer and watches as Steve turns to Bucky-that-was and laughs as he says, _I’m dizzy from all the spinning, Buck. Ya might hafta help me home._ Steve’s cheeks were flushed a bright cherry red, but it was a healthy kind of flush for a change. Looking at him standing there like that, Bucky Barnes had loved that boy so much that he felt his heart would burst it was so, so full.

 _I’m pretty dizzy, too, Steve,_ Bucky-that-was says.

Bucky-of-now knows that dizziness had nothing to do with the cold. He knows that because they were alone out there in the park that frigid winter’s night and just before they’d headed home, he had taken off one of his gloves and cupped Steve’s chilly, cold-reddened cheek in his hand. Steve had turned into the touch and smiled, small and secret and that feeling like his heart was about to explode had hit Bucky again.

“I hate you,” Bucky-of-now growls at their ghosts. “ _Hate_.”

He taps his fingers against the outside of his thigh, _tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…_ He’s worn grooves in the top of his table back at his apartment from tapping this same rhythm over and over. Now he stops tapping though and raises his hands to his head and fists them in his hair as he sinks into a crouch at the burning, stinking feet of Niccolo Romanello. He screams through his gritted teeth and stares at nothing, stares at everything. Listens to Steve softly saying, _Ma won’t be home for a while yet if ya wanna come in…_

That Steve—that version of Steve—would not have lived to see his fortieth birthday; he’d have been damn lucky to see thirty, honestly. And it hadn’t mattered, Bucky had thought that loving Steve while he could, as well and for as long, would have been enough. But then they’d gotten older and things had changed. Bucky’s love had not waned, but it had grown perspective and yes, a little bit of fear. In their day what they were about was a lot like playing at trains and eventually one or both of them was going to get clobbered. There were so many mistakes, so many missed opportunities to say, _I’m sorry_ or _I take it back_ , but he’d passed by every one of them thinking it was for the best. Bucky had still never meant to leave Steve, not completely; he’d meant to take care of him no matter what and for as long as Steve stuck around to let him do it and all because Bucky loved him so much it made him sick.

Bucky growls through his clenched teeth and rocks back and forth on his heels, glaring into the dying light of the fire. Romanello’s body is a charred husk on the outside and a cracked pie of raw meat on the inside. He’s all charcoal skin and bloody flesh, lips burned away and teeth bared in an endless snarling scream like a dying animal. Bucky understands that very well, the dying animal wail is a song stuck inside his head most of the time. Usually it’s in the background, but right now it’s filling him up and making his ears ring. This is the end result of having his mind raped over and over, a kind of empty-dirty sensation that goes so deep Bucky knows he will never be clean. Nevermore will he stand in the snow with Steve Rogers and laugh up at the stars.

It’s cruel and unfair, but that’s the way it goes. Bucky lets out a slow, shaky breath then stands up straight again. He squares his shoulders, smoothes out his expression and tidies his hair. Then he walks away, ignoring the echoes of laughter following him down the hallways of his mind. Ignoring the tears trembling on Steve’s lashes as he said, _But I love you, Buck,_ like that was the answer to everything. It wasn’t long after the night in the snow that Bucky had broken Steve’s heart for the first time and then spent the rest of their time together breaking it and putting it back together time and again.

Bucky gets in his nice car, cranks it up then spins the volume knob on the stereo until he can feel the bass thudding hard and heavy in his chest; a heartbeat beside his own. White Zombie says, “Devil man, devil man, running in my head, yeah…” and Bucky puts the car in reverse as he thinks maybe he’s always been a monster, just a different kind. It doesn’t matter. Bucky decides this abruptly and shoves everything back down with a lot of force to someplace far away where it can no longer reach him.

Back at Khasbulatov’s place, Bucky is buzzed in and almost immediately yet another stoned party girl comes staggering out of the great room right toward him. Khasbulatov likes having pretty waster girls around at all times to keep him and his men entertained. This one is half-naked, her smile is vacant and her eyes are glassy from dope. “Hey, gorgeous,” she slurs, arms out to embrace him.

“No,” Bucky says as he sidesteps her and keeps going.

“What?” she mumbles behind him.

He says nothing, just goes up the stairs while he wonders where Vassily, his secret chaperone, got off to. A moment later the door opens again and Bucky doesn’t wonder anymore. Timing is everything in their line of work, of course Vassily didn’t want to come in right on his heels. That’s okay though, Bucky forgives him.

The smile that twists his lips is not a pleasant one as he raises his hand to knock on Khasbulatov’s office door.

“Enter,” Khasbulatov calls.

Bucky does as he is instructed and strides right up to the big man’s desk where he presents him the phone. “The proof you asked for.”

“Thank you, Mr. Winter,” Khasbulatov says. He takes the phone, finds the video then plays it four times, smile growing wider with each repeat. Vassily reappears in time for the final play-through and though he doesn’t flinch much, Bucky can see the horror in his eyes even as he laughs and nods to Khasbulatov.

“Are you satisfied?” Bucky asks.

“Very, very satisfied, Mr. Winter, yes,” Khasbulatov says. “Allow me to get your payment while Vassily pours us drinks. This will suit you?”

“Yes,” Bucky says as he takes a seat in one of the cushy black leather club chairs across from the desk. He keeps an eye on Khasbulatov while he gets his money out of a wall safe to be certain that money is _all_ he takes out of the safe. Vassily pours them three vodkas from a cobalt blue crystal decanter and Bucky notes that he keeps his body turned so he can be easily observed in the act to make it clear he’s not slipping anything into anyone’s drink.

Khasbulatov puts Bucky’s payment into a small black bag that he presents to him with a flourish. “Count it if you like, I will not be offended.” That is a lie. If Bucky counts the money in front of him Khasbulatov will be _highly_ offended. Bucky knows how this game works.

He curls his lips up into a sliver of a smile as he looks into Khasbulatov’s glacier-blue eyes. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Good, good,” he says as he goes to sit back behind his desk.

Only then does Vassily pass out their drinks, starting with Khasbulatov and ending with Bucky—a subtle but deliberate snub. Vassily dislikes and mistrusts him, he has from the get-go, just like Khasbulatov. Now he also fears Bucky in a fundamental way after seeing what he so easily did to Romanello. Bucky has alarm bells ringing in Vassily’s head.

“ _Za zdorov'e teh, u kogo ono eshhe est!_ ” Khasbulatov cries heartily, shoulders shaking with barely restrained mirth. _To the health of those who still have it!_

They all drink and then drink again. As Khasbulatov takes his second long drink from the high ball glass, Bucky pulls a gun fitted with a silencer from his inner coat pocket and shoots him through the clear crystal bottom. Vodka, glass and blood splatter everywhere; brains and pieces of skull fly out of his head. The impact of the bullet slams Khasbulatov back into his seat so hard it rolls backward and bumps into the windowsill behind him before his head tips forward again. Blood streams from his mouth in a red stream, staining his royal purple shirt to black.

Before Vassily can draw his own weapon, Bucky shoots him through the right eye and he drops like a sack of bricks, body twitching and jerking like an electrical current is running through it. It makes Bucky think of sitting in the chair to be wiped, how it hurt and burned along his nerve endings until he vomited sometimes. He looks away from Vassily though he cannot block out the sound of his heels drumming the floor, but that doesn’t bother him.

Bucky picks up the burner phone he used to record Romanello’s death with and uses the camera to take pictures of Khasbulatov’s and Vassily’s bodies. When he’s done, he puts it back in his pocket, goes around the desk to access the camera feeds that play through Khasbulatov’s computer. He deletes all the footage from tonight before disabling the cameras completely via a couple of keystrokes and a click of the mouse to confirm. He finishes his drink when he’s through then takes his money and leaves.

This was a twofer kind of night; the Russians hired Bucky to kill one of the Italians and the Irish hired Bucky to kill one of the Russians. He’s made quite the payday and it only took him a few hours, less than the average American full-time workday, in fact. He has to meet his contact with the Irish, a man named Cory Meanwell and collect his payment after he presents his proof. He picked a very profitable time indeed to get back into the murder business. Bucky wasn’t born this way, but he was made into one hell of a killer regardless. There’s no reason he shouldn’t capitalize on it and the way he is now makes him useless for any other line of work.

He walks by the same half-naked girl from earlier and she yet again tries to grab him, smiling as she says, “Lemme touch your face. It’s soooo glowy.”

Bucky slaps her hand away and has half a mind to kill her, too, but then decides against it. She’s seen his face, obviously, but she’s so out of her head on drugs and booze that she won’t remember him in a couple of hours, much less tomorrow. There are more of Khasbulatov’s goons afoot and Bucky doesn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. Killing the girl right here in the foyer would definitely bring that attention. So far, he’s been in and out with no one to see him other than the security cameras, Khasbulatov and Vassily and this one bombed out of her head girl. Options and objectives weighed and processed, Bucky walks out the front door and leaves the girl swaying behind him, dumbstruck and wondering aloud where the glowy-faced guy went.

Bucky meets Cory Meanwell in a warehouse that smells like diesel fuel and moldy soil. They make the exchange and when Meanwell sees that Bucky offed Khasbulatov’s right-hand man, too, he gives him a bonus with a wink that says, _We’re friends now, right, pal? Right, buddy?_ Bucky thanks him and does not wink back or engage in the small talk Meanwell tries to coax him into.

He can give mission reports and could still sit through a lengthy debrief if he was needed to, but he can no longer remember how to have _conversations_. He understands the mechanics of them fine—a spoken exchange of news and ideas between people; one person speaks, the other listens then inputs their own thoughts on the matter. However, he can’t make his mouth work to follow through; to use the knowledge of what a conversation is and consists of in a real-world application. Bucky is socially retarded; Giovinazzo told him this with a smile and pat on Bucky’s shoulder that he had to force himself not to flinch away from.

When all efforts fail and Bucky just stands there, quietly staring at him, Meanwell shakes his head. “You’re not a talker are you?”

“No,” Bucky says.

“Message received,” Meanwell says. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, at a loss now that his fabled gift of gab has failed him so thoroughly. Finally he says, “Get rid of that phone, huh?”

Bucky picks the phone up off the hood of Meanwell’s car and crushes it in his left hand. “Done,” he says. It’s a show, a silent message that says, _Do not fuck with me or I will crush your skull._ It works like a charm.

“Sweet Mother Mary and Joseph,” Meanwell says, eyes wide. “How’d you do that?”

He grinds the phone’s remains in his hand until it is pieces and splinters of plastic and circuit board. Then he drops the phone on the dirt floor of the warehouse.

“Goodnight, Mr. Meanwell,” Bucky says.

Bucky is ready to go home and hang his new painting so he can have a piece of Steve right there with him on his living room wall even if it is a painting of the Winter Soldier done mostly in gloomy shadows and suggestions. Steve touched that canvas, Steve painted him and brought him to life. It’s proof that Steve still thinks about him. It may even be proof that Steve still cares about him, but Bucky won’t allow his mind to wander too far in that sunlit direction.

“Ah… yeah… yeah,” Meanwell says. “Goodnight to you, too, Jimmy.”

Bucky gets in his car and drives away, blaring Dimmu Borgir so loud it almost hurts his ears. He has discovered that he likes heavier music, the grind and crunch, the angry thud of drums pounding in his temples. It quiets the rage inside of him and drowns out the noise in his head. He flips on his blinker and takes the first exit that will lead him away from New Jersey and back to Steve so he can resume his watch and get back to the real business of keeping Steve safe. It’s the only other thing he’s still any good at.


	6. Chapter 6

_I am being rowed through Paradise in a river of Hell:_   
_Exquisite ghost, it is night._

— Agha Shahid Ali   
“Farewell”

Two days before Thanksgiving, Steve comes home from a mission to destroy a HYDRA base hidden away deep underground in the Mongolian steppe. The most daunting part of it was Natasha telling them to watch out for marmots; sometimes they give the kind of gift you can’t give back. At Steve’s perplexed look, Clint had said, “Bubonic plague.” Steve doesn’t think he’s ever stepped livelier in all his life, not even when under enemy fire in an exposed area during the war.

Now he is trudging up the stairs with dirty clothes on and a duffel hanging limply from his fingers. Somewhere along the way his jeans got torn and he’s not sure how that happened because he didn’t wear them into the HYDRA base, of course; he wore his uniform. His other hand is in his pocket, running over the smooth edges of a joker from a deck of Bicycle playing cards that Clint broke out on the flight home. Steve had played poker with Clint and Natasha while also trying to tune out Tony’s non-stop stream of chatter from the cockpit. When Steve asked if he could have the jokers from the deck, Clint had told him it was no problem. Then Steve had told them how there used to be trading cards tucked inside the cellophane overwrap of cigarette packs. He told them how he used to use them as bookmarks. Natasha had smiled and looked at him like she thought that was sad for some reason. Steve thinks it’s because she knows he never smoked, but Bucky Barnes did. Clint had laughed and said he’d missed that part of the festivities, but damn did he light ‘em up when he was in high school.

Those trading cards of everything from beautiful women to the must-have cars of the day are long in the past, but Steve misses them. He misses how Bucky would save them to give to him if they didn’t see each other for a few days. He misses how he kept them in his top nightstand drawer and rotated them out to use as bookmarks. Ah, the woes of a bygone era. The sorrows of a life only half lived when it should have been.

Steve goes into his apartment and makes a beeline for the bathroom to hit the head because he’s about to pop. When he’s what feels like ten gallons lighter, he tosses his soiled clothes in the hamper to wash later. Tony has his uniform to be cleaned by his hyper-efficient robot laundresses at Avengers Tower. That’s where all of their work clothes go nowadays and Steve is sometimes a little worried that one day he’s going to have his uniform returned to him with the ass and/or crotch cut out of it. Maybe there will be a letter pinned to the front: _Oops. Cleaning error._ No, he does not have great faith in Tony Stark’s maturity nor is he all that sure Tony even likes him that much. After New York he thought they had at least come to a truce, but that was a couple of years ago and they’re back to sniping at one another if left alone without mediation for too long. 

Then Steve thinks about how Tony is also the reason they’ve been able to follow any leads about Bucky at all and reevaluates his thoughts. Tony’s not happy about scanning digital feeds from cameras even though it’s only running the feeds through facial recognition software on auto, but he does it anyway. Tony is why Sam is in Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada at this very moment following up on a possible hit. Without Tony’s assistance though they’d have even less to go on because according to the file Natasha slipped him, Bucky doesn’t even have fingerprints anymore and his DNA is obviously not registered in any database, so those options are null. There’s no way they could set up a _Have you seen Bucky?_ hotline either for the public to call in with any tips regarding his whereabouts. The resounding response to such a thing would be, _Who the hell is Bucky?_ and the phone would never ring.

That makes Steve smile, a touch bitter, a dash rueful, as he plops down on the couch with a heavy sigh. He’s tired, but he isn’t sleepy; he conked out for the last couple of hours of their flight and woke up to find Clint drooling on his shoulder and Natasha watching it all with her hand covering her mouth to muffle her soft, husky laughter. Tony was still chattering away, oblivious and Steve took a moment to wonder if the guy ever sleeps and decided he probably doesn’t, at least not much. Then he checked his phone to see if there was any word from Sam in New Brunswick. There wasn’t. Sam is only to call him if he thinks he has a definite lead on Bucky, then Steve will join him and they’ll go together the last leg of the race to track him down. Sam can’t handle Bucky on his own if he proves to be… unfriendly… toward their helpful inclinations.

“Where are you?” Steve mutters into the darkness.

Bucky can’t have just disappeared again, faded out of Steve’s life like an ever-smaller speck falling away… away… away from him on into white noise infinity. Though more and more often that seems to be _exactly_ what he’s done. Every time they take another HYDRA base, Steve insists they check it from top to bottom and leave at least one person alive to interrogate before he turns his back while Clint or Natasha dispatches them with quiet efficiency. He worries about that and tries to keep a hopeful spin on it, too: if HYDRA did reclaim their asset then they’ve put him back on ice. If they hadn’t then Steve wouldn’t have to look for Bucky; HYDRA would send Bucky to him. Sometimes (a lot of the time) Steve wishes that was the case because then he’d know where Bucky was and could take his chance then. Assuming Bucky didn’t put a bullet in his head first, but he doesn’t allow himself to think like that for too long.

He groans and gets back to his feet; he feels antsy. He should try to sleep some more, but he can feel in his bones that isn’t going to happen yet. He’s too keyed-up from the mission and too worried about what Sam will (won’t) find in Canada. Steve paces around the living room, measuring its perimeter with his footsteps where he can walk—the sofa and the television are not obstacles he can go through, of course. He stops at the window and stares out into the darkness, absently noting that the blinds in the apartment across the way are open tonight. They were closed when he left four days ago. There’s a pattern to it that Steve thinks he has figured out: blinds open means his neighbor is at home; blinds closed means his neighbor is away.

These are the little things he has to think about at night if he doesn’t want to wander down the rutted lane of his memory. Besides, the neighbor is a curiosity to Steve, albeit a small one. He wonders what they do all alone—for they must be alone to live the way they do in that dark apartment. That and he’s only seen the one furtive shadow-shape moving around in there. It’s not much to go by, but he thinks it’s a man and it’s always the same man-sized shadow-shape that he sees. Steve waves without really thinking about it, sending a silent, _How ya doin’?_ to the odd fellow across the street. Not that the guy could see him in the dark with the street between their buildings and castoff from the lights down below to obscure the view, but it’s the thought that counts. 

“Ugh,” Steve says as he lightly bangs his head against the window frame. This restlessness is driving him up the wall. He could go down to the gym and work out for a few hours. It would be something to kill the time and the owner, Doan, gave him a key ages ago because they’re friends. Doan’s a little guy, but Steve’s sparred with him a time or two and learned that Doan’s size doesn’t hold him back at all the way Steve’s used to. Of course, Doan isn’t a runty asthmatic with high blood pressure and a plethora of other problems either.

Yeah, Steve _could_ go to Doan’s and do a workout or ten, but he’s not going to. He knows precisely what he’s going to do; it’s the only thing that quells the odd, unwanted trembling he feels on the inside more and more often these days. Steve turns away from the window and goes to get changed because the night is wearing thin and he wants to be done before dawn.

The walk to Southeast from his apartment is a pretty long one, but Steve doesn’t mind the walk. It’s a beautiful night in D.C., clear and cold with no wind; the air feels good as he draws it deep into his lungs and watches the frosted clouds of breath blow out again. About halfway there, Steve hears a soft scrape behind him, but when he turns to look he sees nothing but a paper cup from Wendy’s rolling around in the gutter. He decides that was probably what he heard and carries on his way, jogging when the cold starts to get to him a little too much.

The heart of Southeast is a rabbit warren of bad places at night though it’s safe enough to walk through during the day without much worry of trouble from what Steve has heard. When the sun goes down though a shift occurs, the day people go inside and the night people come out. Junkies and whores, pimps and dealers. People smoke crack or freebase cocaine in alleyways. On Halloween, Steve counted three heroin addicts huddled in doorways, two of which had nodded off with needles still in their arms. At sunrise, most of the bad elements seem to evaporate, disappearing back into their hidey holes again until the next nightfall.

He wanders around the area for a couple of hours and has just stepped over a wino passed out on the sidewalk, reeking of Night Train with vomit still fresh in his bird’s nest beard, when he hears a scream from a couple streets over. It is exactly the kind of chaos Steve has been looking for. He pulls the mask out of his coat and puts it on even as he runs toward the sound, senses heightened, skin tingling and tight with adrenalized anticipation. What he finds is a woman struggling against the grip a man has on her arm. She’s slinging her purse, which could double as a small valise, at him ineffectively while screeching at the top of her lungs.

“I told you to let me go, motherfucker!” she bellows and takes another ineffective swipe at the guy with her bag. Loose change, gum and a strip of condoms go flying from the open mouth of the blue vinyl monstrosity when she does. “I ain’t goin’ with you!”

“I told you I’m not gonna hurt you! Just get in the car, you dumb cunt!” the man hollers back as he gives her arm a yank so hard she screams again, this time in pain. He’s leaned over the center console trying to pull her into the car through the open window. Steve may be a little naïve in some ways still, but he knows perfectly well that when a man tries to pull a woman into his vehicle then he means her nothing but harm.

He punches out the driver’s side window of the baby-shit brown older model station wagon the man is in, grabs his collar and jerks him away from the woman just as she lunges backward. She falls on the sidewalk with a curse and pained yelp just as Steve’s fist plows into the guy’s face. Then he grabs the man by the collar and pulls him halfway through the broken window of his station wagon.

“Get out of here and don’t you ever come back,” Steve growls at him. Even now in his late nineties, Steve hates bullies and men that mistreat women are exactly that. “If you’re stupid enough to come back you’re going to deal with me, got it?”

The man is cursing and blubbering about his busted nose and how he thinks Steve broke his teeth. The way the air whistles through them, making it sound like he says _teef_ instead has Steve pretty convinced he did actually snap a few. He doesn’t care; this man and his behavior are unacceptable.

“Leave,” Steve says, snarling it in the man’s bleeding face. “Right now. _Leave._ ”

“All riiiiight!” the man wails. It comes out, _Aw riiiiife!_

“Good,” Steve says. He shoves him back through the window. “Do that then.”

The guy puts his car in gear, steps on the gas and peels away so quickly the back end fishtails a bit. If Steve didn’t jump out of the way the guy would’ve sideswiped him in his panic. He looks over at the woman, surprised to find her still there; people don’t usually stick around in these situations. She grins at him though and totters over to him on platform heels so impossibly high she’s actually eye-level with Steve though without them she can’t be over 5’6”.

“You saved me,” she says, blinking huge, dark eyes at him. The false lashes on the right lid have come partially unglued and the flop down a little too far, making it look like her eyelid not only droops, but has partially doubled. She feels it and scoffs with annoyance as she reaches up, yanks it off and sticks it in the pocket of her red faux fur half-jacket. “You some kinda big damn hero or somethin’?”

“No, ma’am,” Steve says. “I just… that man was trying to hurt you. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

She snorts softly. “Ain’t nobody else ‘round here woulda helped my ass. You somethin’ else, Mr. Mysterious.” She reaches up and taps the mask with one acrylic nail painted stop sign red with shimmering silver diagonal stripes across the middle. “You got a mask and everything. Who you hidin’ from?”

“No one,” Steve says. “What I just did though is illegal and well, I—”

“Mhmm,” she says. “That be true. Real true. But I ain’t gonna tell nobody what you did. It was nice of you. Not too many nice people left in this world, I don’t think.”

“You and me both,” Steve says before his mouth-to-brain filter can activate and keep his mouth shut for him.

She smiles at him again, real and pleased. She was pretty once, Steve notices, _very_ pretty, but this life has not been at all kind to her and it shows like dust caught in the seams of her very essence. She’s probably no older than twenty-eight—and that’s likely pushing it—but she looks closer to forty. Her looks are still there, but they’re fading, becoming some unsettling mix of young with oldness lurking right beneath the surface in glimpses and flashes. Forty _isn’t_ old, but on her it looks ancient because it’s out of place; no one so young should look so used up and _tired_.

The woman straightens her cheap siren-red wig that came askew in the scuffle then pats it down absently, all without ever taking her eyes off of Steve. 

“I tell you what, Mr. Mysterious, why don’t you walk me on home and I’ll toss you a freebie,” she says. She runs her hand up Steve’s chest and it’s all he can do not to jump at the unexpected _familiar_ contact. “I promise you, Diamond’s gonna make you shine so good.”

“Excuse me?” Steve asks, blinking rapidly as he tries to process what she’s saying. The lingo is unfamiliar, but the intent is obvious even if he’s not had a lot of experience in this area. Then it _really_ clicks: this woman is a prostitute and she just offered to have sex with him free of _charge_. Hence the use of “freebie”. “Oh. Oh, no, I don’t think I could do that.”

“And why not?” Diamond-the-prostitute asks him.

“Because… well… because it’s… um… I just can’t,” Steve says.

Diamond smiles again then laughs. Her laugh is a lot like Natasha’s, actually. “What, is you the last Boy Scout or somethin’? Rescuin’ bitches and not expectin’ nothin’ in return?”

“Something like that, yes,” Steve says.

“Shit,” Diamond laughs. “You somethin’, Mr. Mysterious. How ‘bout you tell me your real name then?”

“Uh…” Steve thinks quick, manages to spit out, “John. My name is John.”

This time Diamond practically roars with laughter. “Uh-huh and my real name’s Suzy fuckin’ Sunshine,” she says around her coughing bursts of laughter. “I known a lotta johns in my time, least three hundred by now.”

 _Dear God,_ Steve thinks, but does not say. “That’s… interesting.”

“Naw, it ain’t,” Diamond says. “It’s shit, that’s what it is, but we don’t gotta talk ‘bout none of that neither. I ain’t tryin’ to make you jumpy, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve says.

Diamond’s smile that time is kind of sad as she sticks a cigarette in her mouth and lights it. When she blows out the smoke, Steve breathes it in and enjoys the memory rush that comes with it. “You’re sweet, Mr. Mysterious—that’s what I’m’a call you, by the way, if you all right with that.” She taps ash off the end of her cigarette and cocks her head, smile widening. “That’s what I’m’a call you even if you don’t be all right with that. ‘Cause I like it. You don’t deserve a name like John, I don’t think. You too good for that fucked up shit.”

Steve feels himself flush beneath the mask even as he smiles. This is the kind of thing he’s always wanted to do—help people, just _help_ them, no wars, no battles, no big bad guys lurking in the shadows. Just people like Diamond and anyone else out there in a similar situation.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “Can I walk you home?”

Diamond blows smoke up at the sky and shrugs. “I’m ‘bout there anyways, but yeah, big man, you can walk me on home.”

She laughs again when Steve offers her his arm, but she takes it after only a second and away they go; the science experiment and the whore.

Steve escorts Diamond all the way to the door of her third floor walk-up and after once again declining her offer of a freebie, he bids her goodnight. “I’ll be seein’ you, Mr. Mysterious,” she calls after him.

Steve kind of hopes he does meet Diamond again; he liked talking to her a lot, actually. He trots on downstairs, feeling much better about the world in general and pretty certain he can sleep now if he applies himself to the task. By the time he makes the walk back from Southeast, he probably won’t even have to _apply_ himself very much.

He steps out the door of the building and onto the sidewalk with a smile on his face as he turns toward home. Half a block from Diamond’s building, Steve removes the mask and puts it back in his inner coat pocket. His face is instantly chilled without it there for protection, but he feels more like himself without it on, too. He walks home with his steps light and his humor high. If the wind blows just right he can still catch a whiff of Diamond’s cheap perfume in the air, something that smells kind of like gummy bears. It’s odd, but also pleasant and not at all what he’d have expected a hooker to wear.

It’s as he’s turning the corner two streets over from his building that he sees a shadow from the corner of his eye. It’s stretching out into the street, the light bending it forward, toward him to hover just at the periphery of his sight line. Steve freezes for a split second before instinct kicks in and then he whirls around. He’s in time to see someone disappear into the alley a little way behind him. Someone with dark hair so shiny it looks wet in the glow of the street lights. Someone he would know in the dark by touch alone.

“Hey!” Steve calls as he goes after them. “Hey!” he calls again once he’s inside the mouth of the alley. The alley is empty except for a few broken down cardboard boxes waiting for morning garbage pick-up. But he swears he saw… “Bucky?” he calls. “Bucky, is that you?”

“Buck?” he says again, softer, more cautious as he steps deeper into the alley.

It’s a broad alley, relatively clean and uncluttered because this alley is more for trucks to back up to loading bays to make deliveries than for people to toss their trash into. There is a little more garbage other than the boxes Steve initially saw, but not much, which means there’s nowhere for anyone to hide. It doesn’t stop his heart from thumping harder in his chest, his blood a quiet _shush_ rush in his temples as he clenches and unclenches his hands into nervous fists.

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay,” Steve says softly, _just in case_.

A few seconds drag by and Steve’s heart sinks lower and lower into the pit of his belly where that hollow ache lives most of the time. Still, he does his due diligence and walks from one end of the alley and back again, checking in doorways and behind stacks of boxes. He even goes so far as to lift a couple of taller stacks, shuffling the piles around, hoping to find Bucky hiding in a makeshift cardboard fortress. But there’s nothing and no one there, not even a stray cat or a rat. There are a few roaches that Steve dispatches with quick stomps, taking a particularly perverse pleasure in killing the nasty things. Cockroaches are the one thing he will never learn to tolerate because they had roamed the rooms of the apartment in Brooklyn like lords over a serfdom. No matter how clean he and his mother—and eventually only him—had kept the apartment; scrubbing the floors with boiling water and lye at least three times a year, eating their hands up and sending Steve into coughing spasm-fits, the roaches had still held dominion.

“Nasty,” Steve says under his breath as he squashes one last cockroach and grinds it beneath the heel of his boot. It nearly got away, scuttling its fat black-brown body into a crack in a wall, but Steve was quicker, ha-ha. He steps back onto the sidewalk and runs a hand over his face. He really is starting lose his mind a little bit, he’s almost certain of it. Being a super soldier apparently does not insulate the brain from mental illness. Oh, goody.

His laugh is soft and humorless as he begins walking back toward home again and away from imagined shadows in alleyways. He looked so _real_ though and Steve cannot reconcile that it wasn’t someone even if it wasn’t Bucky. Except the alley was long and he was quick and by the time he got there—only a few seconds after first seeing the person—they were already gone. There wasn’t even the sound of footfalls to mark their passage if they had fled. So, no, it was his traitorous mind playing tricks on him because his hope is like a wasting disease; untreatable, incurable and eventually terminal.

By the time he is back home, Steve has leveled himself out again somewhat and takes the time to make himself a sandwich before grabbing a shower. Then he lies awake in bed well after dawn, staring at the ceiling, daydreaming of the past and wondering about the future, about how empty it looks from where he’s standing. Sometimes he wishes he had never woken up, but then he’d have missed so much and there are many things to love in this century. If he had slept then he would have never known about Bucky, but it’s times like these when he’s wide awake and full of pain like dull razorblades etching his bones that Steve wonders if that would have been such a bad thing.

Bucky has always broken his heart though, so why should now be any different? Once it _was_ different, Bucky had broken his heart for all the right reasons, no matter how hard that would be to explain to someone these days. Steve understands why Bucky did what he did, why he sat him down one day not long after that night—that amazing night—in the park with the snow and Bucky’s big coat a reassuring weight hanging on his shoulders. It was a night Steve would have been happy to let go on forever just to keep hearing the sound of Bucky’s soft laughter, smoke billowing out of his mouth and up to the stars because back then you could still see the stars from Brooklyn. 

It was a couple of days after New Year’s and Steve’s mom was down the hall coughing so loud it hurt his chest to listen to her. None of them would say it, but they all knew anyway and Steve was just one big knot inside because he knew what that meant for his mom. He knew, too, that because his lungs were already so weak that he was only waiting for his turn to become a lunger. One day it would be him down the hall, coughing and trying to be quiet about it, but unable to stop the horrified scream that came up his throat when he splattered his handkerchief with bright red lung blood.

Instead of listening to her or thinking about any of that, he was talking to Bucky about how he was going to try and get a job soon. He’d been trying since he dropped out of high school and had been hired on a couple of places, but then he’d get sick again and miss too much work and end up fired. He was thinking of trying to hire on as a ticket taker at the movie house a couple of streets over though, he thought he could swing that just fine and even if he got sick, they might not fire him.

Bucky, who had been uncommonly quiet all night nodded absently then asked, “How’s Philip?”

“Oh, Philip’s… he’s okay,” Steve said.

Philip was their neighbor across the hall and Philip was a great guy, the kind of guy that most people couldn’t help but like. He worked his knuckles to the bone but never lost his sense of humor or sense of kindness. Philip had the kind of winning smile that could make the sourest of people smile back at him usually and they would look so surprised to have done so. Those things were almost enough for people to pretend Philip didn’t also tint his lips ever so slightly with rouge or buff his nails to a high-polish shine. It was almost enough for most people to ignore the slight swish-sway to Philip’s hips when he walked or how his soft voice had a sort of feminine lilt to it. It was _almost_ enough that people could pretend they didn’t know what it meant when Philip went out on Friday and didn’t come home until Sunday, still wearing the same clothes and smelling like the local precinct’s lock-up—ammonia, vomit and food verging on going bad.

On New Year’s Eve all of Philip’s good qualities weren’t enough anymore. Emboldened by liquor and with all the outrage a good Catholic three sheets to the wind could muster, some of those people decided they couldn’t handle it. They had beaten Philip to a pulp in an alley while all around him people had joyfully rang in the New Year. Philip had managed to drag himself out of that alley and nearly all the way home. It was Steve and Bucky who found him collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, bleeding on the last riser, his bright cat-green eyes swollen to bruised slits, handsome face distorted from the brutal beating. They had seen Philip there and they had _known_ why someone had hurt him so bad.

Bucky’s face had looked like it was caving in on itself, but not when he looked at Philip. It looked like that when he turned his scared blue eyes to Steve, searching his face, seeing more than Steve standing there. He’d been seeing Steve as Philip was or even worse, but that was only something Steve realized much, much later. With their help, Philip had gotten to his feet and they’d half-carried him to the nearest medical clinic for care. A couple of days later, Philip was back at home, convalescing in his apartment and slowly regaining his good cheer (and _how_? Steve had wondered, _how_ could he do that so easily?). While Philip was doing that, Bucky was sitting on Steve’s creaking old bed, getting ready to break his heart for the very first time so he could keep him safe. So Steve would never, ever look like Philip or be a floater in the East River or something even more terrible than that.

“We gotta stop,” Bucky said after a protracted silence where he weaved his fingers in and out of each other, making a basket for his sorrows.

“Stop what?” Steve asked.

“This. Me and you,” Bucky said, gesturing between them. “Won’t nothin’ good ever come of it, Steve-o. You know it and I know it.”

“What do you _mean_?” Steve asked, voice hitching up higher than it should have because he was little, but he had a surprisingly deep voice. Now he sounded like a frightened little mouse. It was a stupid question because he knew the answer already, but he didn’t want to believe it. Did. Not. _Could not._

“This that we do, it ain’t… I won’t say it ain’t normal ‘cause I don’t believe that, but people don’t like it none either,” Bucky said. When he finally looked at Steve his eyes were glassy, full of sadness and fear. “One day, I’m gonna hafta get married to a woman and have kids ‘cause that’s just how it goes. If I’m gonna do that then I can’t do this with you. People’ll get suspicious. Hell, I think some people kinda already are and that’s no good. You dig?”

Steve blinked at him, just staring for the longest time because his mind was empty except for a shrieking ring of static in his ears. He licked his lips and finally said, “But I love you, Buck.”

In that moment, Steve saw how Bucky’s heart broke just the same as his. He heard the hitch in his breath and the way it shook on the exhale. “Ah, Jesus, Steve. Don’t… don’t say that. Don’t—”

“And you love me, too,” Steve said, seizing it with both hands and refusing to let go until someone stomped on his fingers and _made_ him. “I know you do, Buck. So why… Why are you doing this?”

Bucky turned on the bed and took Steve’s narrow face in his hands, stared hard in his eyes. “It’s _dangerous_ , Steve. That’s why I’m doin’ this. I’m doin’ it _for you_ because I can’t… I _won’t_ … I said I’d never let anything happen to you and you think if I—if _we_ —keep this up that I’ll be able to keep that promise then? ‘Cause I won’t. And I won’t have that. I’ll take care of you no matter what because you’re my best pal regardless of anything else. You’re my—”

As Bucky talked, he’d turned more and more until he was sitting cross-legged at the foot of Steve’s bed and Steve lunged for him. He straddled his lap and kissed him with everything he had, begging with his mouth, pleading with every press of his lips, _Please don’t. Please don’t. I know you think you’re doing right by me, but you’re really killing me. Just_ stay, _Buck, please stay forever._

Bucky grabbed his face again and for a horrible moment Steve thought he was going to shove him away. He kissed him back instead, fierce, a low sound of pain almost like a strangled sob hung up somewhere in the back of his throat. He kept kissing Steve, kept right on until they shifted around and he was laying over Steve, fingers under his sweater, ticking over the sharp curves of his ribs. He touched Steve like he was trying to memorize every line of his body so he could hold onto it until the end of his days.

A certain mythology about sex is that if done right the first time doesn’t hurt. That was true for some people, Steve was sure, but not for everyone. There was another myth, too, that said first times were supposed to be _special_ and with that came the heavy implication that it had to be _planned_. Steve learned that none of those things were true and to this day that sad January night is also the closest he has ever come to feeling perfect.

After all the fumbling and soft curses and clumsy fingers, there was a low, dull ache left behind. The initial shock of pain stole Steve’s breath, but he didn’t let on. Even the tiniest wince would have ended things and he didn’t want it to be over. He didn’t want _any_ of it be over and even in those moments he felt like a clock somewhere just out of sight was running down on them. It was in the soft, furtive squeak of rusted bedsprings and the hacking cough of his mother. It was in the way that every touch felt like a goodbye and an _I’m sorry_.

As they lay there in the dark, listening to each other breathe, Bucky finally asked if he hurt him.

“A little, but—”

Bucky cut him off with, “Ah, jeeze, Steve, I’m sorry. Damn, I didn’t mean—”

Then it was Steve’s turn to interrupt him with, “I’m okay, Buck, really.”

It was the God’s honest truth, too; he was fine. The words were _right there_ , but he couldn’t get them out, couldn’t get his mouth to shape them to say, _It hurts in a good way_. So, he just wound himself around Bucky and settled for, “I’m good, really good.” 

Bucky held him back and as they’d laid sticky-slick with sweat and come, he picked his head up and kissed Steve’s forehead. It felt like the whole world was in that one gentle expression of affection. Steve went to sleep wanting to believe that things would be all right, that Bucky would forget about his crazy idea. He hoped so hard that as he drifted off, he almost believed it.

In the morning, Bucky was gone and Steve knew why and he wasn’t ashamed of the way he cried into his coat sleeve out on the landing either. He’d bolted from the apartment thinking he would catch Bucky because the bed was still warm from his body; he hadn’t been gone long. But it was long enough for him to be nowhere in sight and for Steve’s gorge to rise so hard he thought he was going to vomit from the awfulness of it all. The pain of it ripped at his throat and he got hiccups because he was crying so hard. He ended up hyperventilating right there in the blowing winter wind with snow like grains of sand pinging against the side of his face and didn’t let up until Philip cracked his door and asked Steve what in the world was the matter, was his mother all right?

Steve really lost it then, just sat down on the cold concrete floor and bawled like a whipped baby. Bawled like his heart was breaking because that’s exactly what it was doing. He bawled until Philip limped out onto the landing, carefully sat down then leaned over to scoop Steve up in his big arms. Philip rocked him, stroking his hair with the backs of his scabbed over knuckles. Philip had taken a beating, but he’d given one back as well because Philip might have worn rouge on his lips sometimes, but he was also a big guy whose job it was to swing huge slabs of meat. He was all muscle, soft voice and swaying hips or not.

“You wanna talk about it?” Philip asked when Steve could breathe again.

“No,” Steve said, screwing his bony fists into his eyes and feeling ashamed now because he’d just lain curled up in his neighbor’s lap, taking advantage of his kindness—charity—and crying like a little girl.

“Where’s that friend of yours?” Philip asked. “He’s usually johnny on the spot if you’re upset.”

Steve started crying again and Philip softly said, “Ohhh. I didn’t realize… Oh. Oh. Oh. You poor thing.”

“He said… He _said_ …” Steve managed to splutter a little bit of it out while Philip eased him up from the landing and into his apartment. He made them coffee that was actually half Irish while Steve sat at his kitchen table and squalled some more.

It was actually Philip who explained to him why Bucky did what he did, explained it better than Bucky had managed. He shook his head though and sighed, sad, but resigned. “He did it because he loves you. Cruel as that might sound, it’s the truth.”

“If that’s how he loves me then I don’t want him to love me,” Steve said. “It’s not… It’s not _right_.”

“I know, kiddo,” Philip said. “But you gotta see it from his viewpoint, too. That boy is better than any guard dog ever could be and this is just an extension of that. Don’t make it better or easier to swallow because it’s a goddamn bitter pill, but all he wants is to keep you safe. As much as I disagree with his methods, I have to say I admire the nobleness of it.”

“To hell with Bucky Barnes,” Steve said, dashing more tears from his eyes.

Philip smiled that same sad smile, pulling at his bruised and cut mouth as he nodded. “Yeah, I know. But at least you got somebody lookin’ out for you. He’d’ve never let anyone hurt you like what they did to me.” Philip leaned forward though and propped his elbows on the table. “I’ll tell you a secret though: The only real monsters are the ones in our minds. His monster looks a lot like you and maybe that’s not such a bad thing, but it’s warped his perception out of true a little bit, too.” He sat back and tongued a scab at the corner of his mouth then said, “I’ll tell you something else though. You ready?”

“Hit me,” Steve said because why not? This day could not get any worse.

“All you have to do is know that one day things will be better, Stevie. It won't take the sting out of right now, but it'll give you a reason to get up and fight another day,” Philip said. “And that boy of yours, he’ll fight right there with you. I know you just got your poor heart ripped out and stomped on, but I fully believe you haven’t lost your friend, no matter what you think. I guarantee that you ain’t the only one hurtin’ right now either. He just ripped his own heart out _for you_ and that’s stupid, but there’s that nobleness of his again. Bucky Barnes is one hell of a friend, I think and I hope you don’t ever doubt that part.”

Steve knew that was true, had known it all his scrawny, sickly life but hearing someone say it aloud was still a good thing. He got drunk with Philip that morning on whiskey-spiked coffee. By noon, he was completely bombed on rotgut giggle juice and Philip had to help him stagger the few feet back to his front door. Then he had to unlock it for him because Steve was on the verge of passing out standing up.

When he woke up with a banging hangover like a swing party in his head, he felt no better about the state of things. His heart was still broken, he was still sore and even though he believed what Philip said, Steve thought Bucky could not have handled the whole thing worse if he had actually tried. Bucky was usually so good with words, but he’d bungled that good and proper-like.

Steve didn’t see Bucky for nearly a month and when he showed up again with a sheepish, hopeful, “Heya, Steve,” he had taken a flying leap at Bucky and popped him square in the nose.

“You deserved that,” Steve said while Bucky dabbed at his bleeding nose. He pretended his hand didn’t hurt; he was used to throwing punches by that point in his life though it was sadly rare that they connected with anything. It had happened enough that he knew the ache in his knuckles like he knew his own name though and that time especially the ache felt _good_.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said. “I really am. But I—”

“Can it, you crumb,” Steve said, crossing his arms and telling himself he wouldn’t throw another punch even though he very much wanted to.

Bucky sighed and his shoulders slumped as he bowed his head. “I’m _sorry_ ,” he tried again, cutting his sad eyes up to look at Steve. “Can we… I came by to ask you if we can be—”

“Friends?” Steve asked. Bucky nodded. “I dunno about that, Bucky. Not after… after that mess.”

“Please,” Bucky said. “You’re my only _real_ friend, Steve and ya gotta know that I only—”

“I know.” It was Steve’s turn to sigh. He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to think of a life without Bucky. He remembered what Philip said and knew it was absolutely a fact. Because he knew that and because he couldn’t imagine not having Bucky around, not having Bucky to talk to, not seeing Bucky or hearing his laugh, Steve finally shrugged and said, “Ya wanna go see a picture?”

Bucky’s relieved smile was worth it even if another piece of Steve’s heart broke off at the sight because he also knew then that he still loved him. He would _always_ love him, no matter what; it was inescapable.

In his Washington D.C. apartment Steve sits bolt upright in his bed, physically jerking himself out of the recollection. He makes a garbled, animalistic sound of grief and covers his mouth. His shoulders hunch up around his ears and as a grown man who has seen war and lived through more than any one person should have to, Steve cries again for the first time since waking because he misses Bucky, his best friend, his whole world, his _everything_ so much it’s like a giant thing inside of him, eating him from the inside out. It claws and tears at him all the time and one man can only take so much before he breaks.

It was all so long ago, but still only about ten years to Steve’s way of thinking due to the way time has warped and gotten mean on him these last few years. It’s raw and open, a sucking wound full of infection that never heals up. It had scabbed over, but then he saw Bucky again that scab was ripped off and battery acid was poured into the hole and he can’t _breathe_.

Gasping, Steve gets up from the bed and blunders his way into the living room then into the kitchen. He needs to do something because by golly, Captain America is having an anxiety attack. He used to have them all the time, but then after Erskine gave him the serum and made him better, Steve stopped having them for a long time. Then after Bucky “died” he had a few that he thankfully got to deal with in private. Then there was the ice and blessed oblivion where there were no dreams of Bucky falling backward into the snow and out of his reach forever. Here it is again now in the present, Steve’s head a screeching maelstrom of loss and he can’t even get drunk anymore. He is struck by the cruelty of that side effect once more as he finally snatches up a sketchpad and a graphite pencil on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room.

Steve draws to occupy his fidgeting hands, he draws to focus his mind, he draws both to forget and to remember. When he’s done, there’s a picture of Philip with no bruises on his face and that amazing smile of his. Framing his face on top and bottom is: _The only real monsters are the ones in our minds._ Steve has never been able to excise his because if he was Bucky’s monster then it should be no surprise that Bucky was Steve’s. They were flawed then and now they are so irretrievably damaged that no one can ever fix them, but Steve has a support system at least. Bucky is out there all alone, confused and afraid and dangerous to anyone who might cross him. Steve wants to find him and cling to him, just wrap his arms around him and squeeze until all of their damaged parts mash back into place. He _needs_ Bucky, has never stopped needing him and it’s too much. Just _too much_.

He flips the page in the sketchbook and draws Bucky as the boy he remembers him. Draws it into a wish for the past back and for the future they’ve lived through to never have happened. He draws him that night in the snow, laughing and smiling, curls of smoke drifting up to the sky. Steve laughs and wipes his face then carries on with his drawing until his hand begins to cramp. He only stops for a second then to flex his fingers before going back to the drawing and not letting up until Bucky looks so real he could walk right off the page and into real life again.

“I miss you,” Steve says to the drawing of that young man. “I miss you _all the time_.” He presses his lips lightly to the picture then closes the sketchbook, drained through-and-through now. He makes it as far as the couch where he flops down and closes his eyes. Sleep is blackness, but it is uneasy blackness because in the darkness, he hears Bucky calling his name and feels the winter wind stinging his cheeks.

When he wakes, Steve is sweaty and shivering where it chills his skin. He wipes it off his face and gets up from the couch, stretching and popping his neck to loosen it up. Then he showers, doing nothing more than going through the motions and very carefully not thinking about anything more than the next thing he has to do.

After his shower, he finally gets around to going through all the mail that piled up while he was away. Most of it’s junk, but he has a subscription to _National Geographic_ and the latest issue of that arrived in his absence. So did an issue of _Popular Science_ —it’s a good way to stay up-to-date on things, which he is desperately in need of. His newspapers are all waiting in their little plastic bags and Steve starts with those first so he can get caught up on current events in his neck of the woods. He sets aside the _New York Times_ and starts with the D.C. papers, arranging them from oldest to newest. Sam jokes all the time that Steve is the last man in the free world who actually reads _the paper_ , but Steve can’t give it up. It’s always been one of his small pleasures and he refuses to let it go.

He opens the paper from the day after he left on the mission and chokes when he sees the front page headline: _DEATH OF SENATOR’S DAUGHTER ROCKS CAPITAL_. There’s a picture of a girl, pretty though her eyes are sad and shifty, cutting to the left so she’s not looking directly into the camera. She’s healthy in the picture, a normal weight and even in the newspaper print, her dark hair is shiny and ripples with gentle waves. Even like that, Steve _knows_ this girl, he’s seen her before—days ago in an alley with her boyfriend. He’d interrupted their attempt to buy drugs and she’d been so scared when she looked at him.

_The darling of the Democratic party, Senator Robert “Big Bob” Paulson, is in mourning today as news of his daughter, Krista’s, violent murder rocks D.C._

Steve can’t get past the first line before he retches softly and throws the paper across the room.

What has he done?


	7. Chapter 7

_Within my heart_   
_is another heart, within that heart,_   
_a man at war writes home:_   
_this is like digging a hole in the rain._

— Bob Hicok   
“Absence Makes the Heart. That’s it: Absence Makes the Heart.”

Bucky has been at his post since a little after 5:00 a.m., he has sat in his chair and drummed his fingers against his tabletop. The soft dents in the wood left by his tapping are a perfect fit for each metal digit, like guides so he always knows where to put them. Steve nearly saw him this last time and he has been reevaluating following him on his nighttime excursions ever since.

Initially, he thought he should stop altogether, now he thinks he should just follow behind much farther. Instead of giving Steve a five minute head start, he could give him as much as a half an hour since it’s obvious by now that Steve always takes the same route. The first part of his foot travel is easy to follow, to make up lost distance and stay far enough behind that there is never another near miss. The one thing Bucky has that Steve does not is greater speed; he moves much, much faster than he does. He bolted down the alley with his heart in his throat, fear an uncommon ghoul lurking in the middle of his haunted house brain. It was interesting, but not worth repeating because the risk is too high. Just because he’s faster does not mean Steve will never catch him, law of averages says that eventually he will if he continues to see him.

He’s thinking of that when he sees Steve come into the living room, shaking, scrubbing at his face, shoulders heaving. It takes a moment for Bucky to realize that Steve is crying. That hurts Bucky in a peculiar way; it’s a sinking, stabbing sensation in the middle of his chest, a small lump forms in his throat. His breath comes faster, his heart rate picks up, he clenches his fingers into fists. He feels helpless sitting here in his apartment with the single painting on the dove grey wall. He feels useless watching Steve and knowing he must be hurting something fierce for him to be crying so hard.

Bucky feels _empathy_. Empathy is a new and shocking sensation and Bucky _does not_ like it. He still wishes he could do something to make Steve feel better. He remembers the sound of his crying, how it was always so hoarse even when it was soft because Steve has that kind of voice, like raw silk covered in fine grit. There is nothing for him to do but bear witness to Steve’s pain. He takes it into himself because he can, because it is his job. It’s part of a promise he made a very long time ago to a man who was and was not Steve Rogers of now.

Steve calms down after spending hours drawing who-knows-what like a man in the midst of a fever dream. It’s twitchy, jerky motions of the pencil dragging across the page. Steve stops to lightly smudge things, to sharpen the pencil, his tongue pokes from the corner of his mouth in concentration. Bucky finds himself smiling at the familiar sight, the smile itself a strange expression that stays so long the muscles in his face, unaccustomed to the position, begin to hurt. 

Then Steve starts sorting his mail and newspapers. He opens the first paper, stares at it for a minute with his mouth hanging open then flings it across the room, one hand going up to cover his mouth. Then his other hand joins in and Steve clenches the sides of his head, looking at nothing at all and totally horrified by whatever it is he’s seeing-but-not. Bucky leans forward more in his seat, elbows on the table. This isn’t weeping and having an anxiety attack, this is shocked disgust. Steve paces in circles and when he turns just right, Bucky can see that his mouth is moving, lips barely parting. He’s whispering to himself rapidly under his breath is Bucky’s assessment of the action. A moment later, Steve spins on his heel and bolts for his front door, gone from Bucky’s view.

He leans back in his chair and sucks his teeth. Something has upset Steve terribly, so much so that he’s fled the premises. What could have been in that one newspaper that was so bad that Steve is now trying to run away from it? Surely he hasn’t just heard about global warming or the Ebola virus. Even if he has, those things aren’t so bad they would have Steve storming out of his apartment.

Bucky taps his fingers for a little while longer, standing up to keep his eyes on the street below in case Steve comes back before he makes up his mind. By the time he’s come to a decision, there is still no sign of Steve, so Bucky leaves his apartment. He pauses just outside the door of his building and scans the street again—still no sign of Steve. There are no pedestrians at all at this hour on this quiet street. Bucky crosses the street and lets himself into Steve’s apartment building. He has to see what was in that paper, has to know if it’s something he can fix because Steve is a wreck, he has been since he came blundering out of his bedroom. This—whatever it is—seems to have sent him tumbling right over the edge.

He keeps an eye out for any of Steve’s neighbors, but there is no sign of them either. It is a Monday and most people are at work this time of day. He makes to pick Steve’s lock only to find he didn’t lock the door in his haste to leave. Bucky presses his lips into a thin line; that is so dangerous. Anyone could walk right on in if they took a mind to. Bucky’s smile is a quick flash of teeth, that same bitter, sharp smile it has become now, an echo of what it used to be. He steps into Steve’s apartment, shuts the door and locks it because he’s not careless.

The paper is scattered all over the living room, but Bucky doesn’t care about the sports and entertainment sections, he’s only looking for the front page because that was what set Steve off. He finds it near the front window, halfway underneath the easel and picks it up. He only has to scan the headline and first paragraph of the article to know exactly what it is that’s upset Steve so badly. The female junkie was the child of someone important, so her death matters in a way the deaths of others just like her do not. Her death is a big damn deal because her father is a big damn deal. Bucky thinks this is a most unfortunate turn of events.

He tosses the paper back down and gazes calmly out the window while he runs scenarios through his mind as to what Steve is thinking—and the possible outcome(s) of those thoughts. Steve was knocked unconscious in an alley and woke up home in his bed with no memory of how he got from one place to the other. Steve might think he blacked out and did something awful—in fact, that is probably exactly what Steve thinks. Though he has to have noticed the painting missing by now, which should suggest to him that he was not the only person in his apartment that night. If Steve was thinking logically then he would question whether or not that anonymous housebreaker was responsible for the deaths of those junkies. However, after seeing the condition Steve has been in all day and particularly after he saw the newspaper headline, Bucky concludes that at this time Steve is not thinking the least bit logically. That could be disastrous for Steve if his need to do The Right Thing kicks in and he attempts to surrender himself for Krista Paulson’s murder. Bucky cannot keep an eye on him if he goes to prison and that will not do.

Which leaves Bucky with a hard decision to make that is so brutal his mind feels like it is being pulled like taffy. He could leave right now and monitor the situation, which in turn could lead to Steve doing something epically stupid in the end and prior to that, hours of Bucky watching him rip himself apart with guilt and shame over what he thinks he has done. Or he can stay right here, reveal himself and ruin everything just so he can assuage Steve’s conscience. So he can make him feel better. The question is: Which of these is the correct course of action in continuing to look out for Steve’s best interests?

The answer Bucky comes up with does not make him happy, but he sits down on the center cushion of Steve’s sofa and waits for him to come home. It is agony and it’s even worse when the ghosts come to walk through Steve’s sunny living room, perverse and sad and nothing Bucky wants to see right now. He watches anyway because he is helpless to do anything else.

Bucky watches his second youngest sister sitting on the curb, bawling her little heart out, blood running down her chin because she tripped and kissed the pavement hard. He picks her up and runs home because he is scared; it’s a lot of blood and she’s screaming like she is dying. He glances over his shoulder to see Steve racing gamely along behind him, tugging Bucky’s littlest sister along by her hand. She is crying as well, upset because her sister is hysterical, but by the time they make it home, the little girl is practically dragging Steve instead because he is red-faced and wheezing. Bucky’s sister carried the scar on her lip and chin for the rest of her life because they couldn’t afford to take her to get stitches. Their mom did the best she could in a bad situation and monitored her for days to come, looking for fever, for infection, with scared dark eyes.

Bucky clenches his hands into fists as he watches himself lying in bed as a kid during the Depression. He listens to his father’s voice clanging out of the air vents as he tells his mother how he got laid off that day. How he doesn’t know what the hell they’re going to do now.

He sees Zola, leaning in so close to his face that Bucky instinctively jerks back on the sofa, shoulders hitting the soft cushions behind him as the little chipmunk-faced monstrosity smiles and pats his cheek. The Winter Soldier is not there, it’s only Bucky, so it is like Zola is doing it _to him right now_ and he feels a furious scream rising in the back of his throat. He bites down on his tongue until his mouth fills with blood and Zola flickers away.

Phantom shocks run up and down his sides, prickles of bottled lightning making him itch deep in his bones where he cannot reach. He feels and hears an invisible hand connect smartly with first his right and then his left cheek— _slap-slap_ —so hard his teeth snap together and he bites the inside of his cheek. Bucky runs his tongue over the scar left behind inside his mouth, remembers how it felt to swallow a gobbet of his own meat.

Fingers tangled in his hair, he breathes harshly through his nose, panting like a hard run horse as he rocks back and forth, keeps swallowing the blood from his bitten tongue. Some of it drools out of his mouth anyway, wending down his chin to drip off onto the knee of his fine black trousers. Ghosts like this come as a storm, a whirlwind that blows and rages before it puffs itself out. It leaves behind stunned silence like the air after the last strain of a scream has faded from it. Bucky wipes one gloved hand over his mouth and breathes slow and deep, counting backward from one thousand until the air doesn’t feel weighed down.

After the storm is truly over and Bucky is calm again, he resumes sitting his vigil in Steve’s apartment perched on the very edge of the sofa cushion. He counts the minutes down inside his head while he taps his fingers on his knee. His mouth tastes like he’s been sucking on dirty pennies and his tongue is a faint throb that he focuses on to keep from thinking about anything else while he counts. Soon though he falls completely still as the shadows lengthen over the city and night creeps into Washington D.C. on spider-quiet legs. The shadows of the buildings stretch grotesquely until there is no daylight left. Bucky breathes and waits and does not daydream in the calm darkness of Steve’s apartment.

Near ten o’clock he hears the scratch of the key sliding into the lock and pulls himself back to full attention. There was no rattle of the doorknob preceding the sound of the key, which means Steve doesn’t even realize he forgot to lock the door. The latch clicks as the knob is turned now though and a thread of light stitches itself through the entryway and fades down the hall. Bucky cuts his eyes to the side to watch Steve’s shadow cover it and then the door closes again with a soft _snick_. He is pleased that Steve is alone because now that he thinks about it, he might well have had company if he’d gone out seeking the comfort of Sam Wilson or another friend that might be in the area. It was an oversight on Bucky’s part that he thankfully does not have to correct for now.

Steve walks into the living room without turning on any lights. He doesn’t even glance toward the shape on his couch, he’s clearly lost in thought and that is to be expected, he has a lot to be preoccupied about. He also doesn’t need light the way most people do since his night vision is as good as Bucky’s because that is how they were engineered. Operatives capable of moving through the darkness without flashlights to give them away. It’s a valuable ability to have when infiltrating enemy camps filled with people who cannot see you coming without such lights.

Steve does flip on the kitchen light though, back turned to Bucky, head down, breathing soft but heavy. He’s still upset, but seems to be holding himself together admirably well. Bucky watches him and a thrill runs through him at being this close to Steve and still going unnoticed. He has moments where he wonders if he is even real and this is one of those times where it feels like he might be onto something. Bucky, the invisible man. Bucky, the real ghost in the room. Bucky whose ghosts aren’t memories come to terrible life, but are instead his own hell.

Steve goes to the refrigerator, opens it and stares into it for so long Bucky is sure he’s spaced out looking into the tiny light inside. Then Steve shakes himself off, grabs a bottle of water and shuts the door. He turns around and his gaze at last lands on Bucky watching him from the sofa. Steve’s eyes widen and he stumbles backward as he drops the water. His nostrils flare and he tenses up all over though he doesn’t move. He only stares at Bucky, heart pounding so hard Bucky can hear it from where he sits. Steve swallows and it’s like a release valve because after that he starts to shake so slightly that anyone other than Bucky might not notice it.

He should say something, He really should. But what? The problems concerning the elusive mechanics of conversation are in full effect here as well. But. He did come to deliver a message, he has something to say to Steve. It’s a little like a report. A little like a debrief. A lot like delivering valuable intel. All of these things Bucky knows how to do with frightening efficiency.

“You didn’t kill Krista Paulson,” Bucky says. “Or the other ones.”

“Bucky?” Steve says, finally locating the speech center of his brain. “Bucky, is it really you?”

“Yes,” Bucky says because it’s the easiest answer. He’s faintly amused that after what he just said all Steve can think to do is inquire as to whether or not he’s corporeal. It’s sad in its way. “Did you hear what I said?”

“What?” Steve blinks and shakes his head. “I mean, yeah, I heard you, but… _Bucky?_ ”

“Hello, Steve,” Bucky says. This is not going at all like he expected. Steve’s eyes look glassy and his breathing pattern has changed. He keeps swallowing and is blinking even more rapidly. All of these are signs of impending weeping and Bucky doesn’t know what to do with that.

Steve takes a halting step forward and then another and another until he’s halfway between Bucky and the kitchen before he stops again. The shaking has intensified, he keeps swallowing hard and then clears his throat, one hand coming up to scrub across his mouth.

“Say it again.” Steve’s voice is hoarse, choked. He’s looking at Bucky with such hopeless _hope_ that it makes something coil up in Bucky’s chest and hiss at him.

“Say what?” he asks.

“My name,” Steve says as he inches a couple of steps closer.

“Steve,” Bucky says. That coiled up thing in his chest is tighter now that he’s looking at Steve, so close to him for the first time in a long time. Yes, he carried him home, but that was different; Steve was unconscious. Now he’s wide awake and looking at Bucky like he wants to… to… Bucky glances down at Steve’s hands dangling by his sides, the way his fingers twitch and stretch out a little before Steve forces them down again. There. He’s looking at Bucky like he wants _touch him_.

“Oh, God, Bucky,” Steve says. “You know me. You _really_ know me.” He licks his lips and adds, “Right?”

The rest goes unspoken, but Bucky hears it all the same: _Please say yes._

“Now I do,” Bucky says.

Steve’s knees nearly buckle before he snaps himself upright again. His breath hitches and he clears his throat harder this time. Then he shakes his head and starts talking in a rush like his brain has sprung a leak, questions coming so fast (so desperate) that they make Bucky reel.

“Where have you been? Where did you go? How did you get in here? What do you remember? It’s been so long, Bucky and I’ve been so worried. So afraid. Where’d you get those clothes? Are you doing all right? Do you need help? I can help you. I want to help you. Can I help you? Where are you staying? Are you safe?” Steve stops to catch his breath then continues, more subdued now, brow knitting together as it all starts to click into place. “How do you know about Krista Paulson? What other ones are you talking about?” Finally, as an afterthought—and it is an afterthought because such a thing has clearly not occurred to Steve until just now: “Are you going to hurt me?”

Bucky sorts and processes all of the questions, picks through them and chooses the ones he should answer and the ones he can ignore. He wants to look at Steve more than anything else though and that is a distraction, so he won’t allow himself to do that. Instead, he turns his head so he’s facing forward, addressing his blurry reflection in the television screen as he answers Steve.

“I know you didn’t kill Krista Paulson because I killed her,” Bucky says. “I killed the man she was with and the one who hit you, too. Then I brought you home because I couldn’t leave you there.” He risks a glance at Steve to answer the last question. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He says it and feels the shuddering impact of his fist connecting with Steve’s face over and over again, hears the crunch of his nose breaking, the thick crack of his chin fracturing, the thinner twig crackle of his eye socket. He broke Steve’s sweet face that day on the helicarrier, not completely, not to the point of needing surgery or causing disfigurement, but he can still hear the sounds of his bones giving beneath the unrelenting brutality of his blows. Bucky looks away again and thinks, _‘Til the end of the line,_ which is just another way of saying, _‘Til death do us part._ A twisted marriage built on a foundation of lost time, broken bones and blood.

Steve moves right up close to him then, closing the space between them in one quick stride. He touches Bucky’s shoulder, hand resting against the metal fused with his skin, palm hot even through the layers of Bucky’s clothes. He flinches away from the touch automatically because it has caught him off guard and Steve snatches his hand back.

“I’m sorry,” he says and sticks both hands in his jeans pockets like he’s saying, _It’s okay. See?_

“It’s fine,” Bucky says though there’s an itch left behind, the feel of Steve’s hand on his shoulder lingers like a softly burning brand. He’s not used to being touched and when he is touched, he doesn’t like it. The only touches he knew until recently were done with such clinical detachment that no one had to tell him to drive the point home: _You are not a human being. You are an object._ Or the touches were to punish him, the cruel master’s way of correcting a dog that has disobeyed. Bucky does not associate kindness with touching and therefore he does not trust it. On some distant level, he actually fears it.

Steve’s touch is different though because Bucky _wants_ it, he craves it. He knows Steve will never hurt him—he’s proven that amply. Looking at him now, his big sad eyes filled with such horrible, gut-wrenching hope that it threatens to eclipse Bucky’s tenuous grasp on his sanity, he knows that still holds true. But wanting and being able to have are two different things because for Bucky, touching _hurts_. It hurts so bad. It hurts even worse when it’s Steve doing it with such guileless kindness that Bucky feels ill.

“You killed them,” Steve says after a while of simply standing there looking at Bucky, taking him in— _drinking_ him in. Bucky stares at the wall above the television, but he is very aware of what Steve is doing. He is fine with being observed. That is something he is used to. To him, it feels normal even if it is different when Steve’s doing it.

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“Jeezly crow,” Steve says. “Why, Bucky? And wait. How did you even know where I was?”

Bucky’s lips curve up in a sliver of a smile. “I followed you.”

“You _what_?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, but… but… Why?”

“To keep an eye on you.” There’s no point in lying to Steve about it. It’s what he’s always done and honestly, it’s probably the most normal thing about Bucky these days. “You shouldn’t wear that mask. It’s cursed.”

“Um… No,” Steve says, brows drawing together again. “If you want me to stop though then I will.”

“I want you to stop,” Bucky says. “It’s not safe.”

Steve does not acknowledge that part, instead he says, “How long have you been following me?”

“For months,” Bucky says.

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” Steve’s explosion is jarring and Bucky half-rises from his seat before he forces himself to sit back down. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Why would you do that to me?”

“Because I… because it’s not… I shouldn’t be here,” Bucky says. “You don’t want… to know me, Steve.” This is the hard part of things, explaining feelings and intentions, making the internal known to another entity. He can answer direct questions that have direct answers, but complex answers based on abstracts like emotions are like trying to wade through tar.

“That’s crap,” Steve snarls. “Total and complete _crap_. How can you— Never mind.” He paces away and rakes his fingers through his hair, turning to look over his shoulder at Bucky. He’s hurt, shocked, twisted up inside and Bucky can see it all on his open, honest face like the scrolling letters on a billboard. 

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Bucky says. “I’ve… upset you.”

He is so sorry, sorrier than Steve will ever know. Bucky doesn’t feel guilty for all the terrible things he’s done—the terrible things he’s still doing. He does not have attacks of conscience about his lack of moral standing. He doesn’t torture himself with sadness or regret—except when it comes to Steve. When it comes to Steve, Bucky is _all_ regret because he has let Steve down time and time again, he has broken his heart and trampled roughshod over the ruins. He has been the worst thing for Steve when all he ever wanted was to be the _best_ thing.

Bottom line: Bucky fucked up and he can never make it right again. All he has left is to keep doing what he’s been doing his whole life, but not up close. He can keep an eye on Steve from afar, be his guard dog and guardian angel (demon, that’s better, that’s _right_ ). He can make sure Steve doesn’t get hurt or lost in his own crusades to do good in the name of the little guy—in the name of the little guy Steve will always be deep down inside.

“I’m leaving,” Bucky says when Steve just stands there and gapes at him. He rises from the sofa and Steve makes a sharp sound of negation in his throat.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please don’t walk out that door, Buck. I can fix us something to eat and we can talk. I mean, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Nearly eighty years worth.” He tries to smile, but his lips tremble, his eyes are glassy again and this time they’re afraid, too. Afraid Bucky will walk out the door and never come back again. Afraid he’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream. Afraid Bucky’s about to start anew in a different century and break his heart once more.

“I need to go, Steve,” Bucky says, backing out of Steve’s reach because he’s about two heartbeats away from grabbing Bucky and they both know it. “I have work.” It is the truth, Bucky has a meeting with Giovinazzo tonight. The thing he doesn’t say is that the meeting isn’t until later, but Giovinazzo won’t mind if he’s a couple hours early.

“Work?” That stops Steve dead in his tracks. “What do you do? And no, we still… Wait a minute here. We have to _talk_ , Bucky.”

“Yes, work,” Bucky says. “These suits don’t pay for themselves.” That was a little easier and Bucky is surprised by that. He files it away for later examination to determine why that is so.

Steve’s lips quirk up in an involuntary lopsided grin that makes the coiled serpent in Bucky writhe and thrash like it’s being boiled alive. Looking at Steve is agony now. He sighs and forces himself to look at Steve anyway and oh, how he hates the way he can’t stop loving him. Hates how he wants to cradle Steve’s face in his hands and lean in close enough he can smell Steve’s shampoo. He wants to feel his warmth, wants to feel Steve’s hands on his shoulders and be able to welcome the touch again like he did so long ago because he misses it and has missed it since the night he took all of that away from himself in the name of keeping Steve safe.

“Can’t it wait?” Steve asks.

Technically, it could, but if Bucky doesn’t leave here and soon then he is going to implode. Steve doesn’t need to see just how ugly the inside of him is now.

“No,” Bucky says. “Jobs don’t wait. You know that.”

“What do you _do_?” Steve asks. “And _how_ did you get a job anyway? I mean… I just… yeah. How?”

“I know how to lie,” Bucky lies again, still evading the question. The look on Steve’s face says he knows it, too. Bucky sighs and finally says, “I work in… customer service.”

“You _what_?” Steve says. “You do not. But forget that. Why did you kill—”

“I told you why,” Bucky says.

The serpent is becoming more agitated with every passing second and Bucky has to force himself not to ball his hands into fists. Voices leak into the air all around him, children shouting happily in the summer heat of Brooklyn. Steve coughing and laughing at the same time as they sat on the fire escape and watched because Steve couldn’t play like other kids and Bucky would much rather spend time with him than anyone else, so he didn’t mind missing out either. 

“But—”

“ _No,_ ” Bucky says with a sharp shake of his head. He is quickly reaching critical mass. This was such a bad call. Bad move. Bad decision. Faulty wiring short circuiting all over the place. “I have to leave now.”

Steve looks absolutely crushed, but he finally relents. “All right then. Go.”

Bucky walks away, head cocked slightly to the side and listens to those long ago children, smells hot asphalt and the stink of garbage baking in the sun.

“Will you come back?” Steve asks. His voice is tight and choked, a tense collision of syllables.

“Yes,” Bucky says before he can make himself say _no_ instead. Before he can do the right thing for once in his long life. He says yes because he wants to come back to Steve. He’s never wanted anything more in his life.


	8. Chapter 8

_I know your soul is not tainted_   
_Even though you’ve been told so_

Ghost   
“Cirice”

After Bucky disappears on him yet again, Steve is left with even more questions. There is also the very solid awareness that Bucky didn’t give him a straight answer (or any answer at all) to most of the questions he did ask him. _Customer service_. Steve knows it’s a lie, but a lie to cover up what? What is Bucky doing? Because Bucky doesn’t look anything like the poor, destitute man he’s imagined him to be for months now. In fact, Bucky looks like the exact opposite of that—he looks _well to do_. For Christ’s sake, he practically _smells_ like money. Steve does not and never has known anything about fashion, but he’s seen enough expensive, tailored suits in his lifetime to know what they look like. Bucky looked dapper sitting there in his elegant three-piece suit. There was even the gold wink of a pocket watch chain disappearing into the little pocket on Bucky’s black-on-black damask vest.

Bucky’s curious source of income is the least of Steve’s worries, however. It hurts him to think that Bucky has been watching him for months without ever saying a word. It hurts him even more to have near-solid confirmation that it was indeed Bucky that night in the alley. Bucky who ran away from him like Steve was the bogeyman. Steve isn’t blind either, he saw the way Bucky knotted up with tension the longer he sat there. Something is wrong with this picture—wrong with _Bucky_. He was like watching a channel with bad reception flicker in and out; detached and distant one moment, a live wire humming with nervous agitation the next. His eyes disturbed Steve and made his heart ache at the same time. There is something awful lurking in there like a wild animal caught in a trap. Like he’d still bite if given half a chance because he doesn’t know what else to do.

None of that truly matters though, not in an immediate sense. What matters is that Bucky showed himself again. He spoke to Steve. He looked at him and said his name and he _knew_ Steve. It was only for a few minutes, but Bucky came back to him at long last… then he left again. His latest absence makes Steve miss him with a newborn ferocity that he hasn’t felt before. It leaves a taste like bitterroot in his mouth as he sits on the sofa numb with shock. They have so much to talk about, so many things to say. Or at least Steve has a lot of things to say to Bucky because Bucky doesn’t seem to know how to say much of anything anymore. It was like he had to struggle to string together more than a few words at a time. He is still Steve’s Bucky deep down though; Steve saw that, too.

Steve thinks he should call Sam and tell him to pack it up and head home, but he doesn’t move from the spot Bucky so recently vacated. He feels like he’s made of lead, mind a hum-buzz of thoughts that chase themselves around in circles. He’s dumbstruck, plain and simple. All this time Bucky has been right here hiding under his nose and yet just out of reach. Steve wonders if all those little glimpses and hints of movement he thought were Bucky then wrote off as wishful thinking actually were the real deal. He thinks so and then wonders if Bucky has any idea how _cruel_ he’s been to keep himself a secret from Steve. He rolls that thought around in his mind and decides that no, Bucky doesn’t have a clue. Bucky doesn’t think of it as cruel at all, in fact; he flat-out told Steve he doesn’t want to know him.

Which means Bucky thinks he’s doing Steve a favor by staying away. Steve is sick and tired of Bucky Barnes’s well-intentioned, horribly misguided ideas when it comes to doing things in Steve’s _best interest_. Bucky never has figured out that Steve’s best interest _is Bucky_. He’s all that has ever mattered. Steve loved Peggy, truly loved her and would have married her. He would have been genuinely happy with her and they’d have had three or four kids (the first son whom Steve had already decided was going to be named James Buchanan Rogers). But even in the midst of all that imagined happiness, Steve’s heart never would have been Peggy’s the way it would always be Bucky’s. It wasn’t fair and it didn’t feel like a very nice thing to Steve, but it was a truth he could not change.

His brain somersaults back to Bucky, reminding him that Bucky is the one who killed Krista Paulson and _two other people_. Steve gets up and fishes through the newspaper still scattered around on the floor until he finds the front page. He forces himself to read the article and discovers that Krista Paulson was found with two other individuals in the same alley that Steve had first encountered them in. The police officers the reporter interviewed kept repeating how grisly the murders were. How inhuman. How violent. How it was shocking to see something so vicious and depraved. Their bodies were so badly beaten in the face/head area that the M.E. had to use their tattoos to identify them. Steve shudders and tosses the paper aside again as he slumps down on the sofa.

Bucky killed the one guy to protect Steve, he gets that, he can even accept it without a lot of thought applied to it. But Krista and the young man—her boyfriend—the paper named as Michael Hassek of Richmond… Why did Bucky kill them? They were sad people, junkies who needed help, not people who deserved to be horribly murdered. Steve realizes he can accept that, too, because with Bucky he can forgive almost anything, but he wishes he knew _why_. That’s the thing he cannot accept, not knowing the reason for it. Bucky said, _I told you why_ and in the moment, Steve had been fooled into believing him or it just plain didn’t register, but now with this little bit of distance between then and now, Steve realizes Bucky didn’t tell him squat about why he murdered Krista Paulson and Michael Hassek.

When it occurs to him a moment later, Steve says, “Oh,” the one word flat with shock and terrible understanding.

Krista Paulson and Mike Hassek were witnesses and to Bucky’s—the Winter Soldier’s—way of thinking that would not stand. That man who was programmed, beaten and conditioned into believing himself a machine is still in there somewhere. Of course he is. Steve is a fool to have even thought that _maybe_ that wasn’t the case. He’s a moron for believing that maybe once Bucky got his memory back the Winter Soldier would be put to rest at long last. Steve had hoped so, absolutely and not just for Bucky’s sake, but for the Winter Soldier’s sake as well. It’s not something he’d ever say to anyone, but after reading the file Natasha gave him, Steve was left with a lot of pity for the Winter Soldier. Sam would be appalled, but actually Natasha might get where Steve’s coming from—at least a little bit, as much as she is capable of true empathy.

A creature like the Winter Soldier is to be pitied because no human being would willingly do what that man did—okay, most human beings wouldn’t anyway. The Winter Soldier was a lot like Frankenstein’s monster—a creature that could no more help its creation than it could help the sky being blue. The Winter Soldier did not ask to be made and set loose on the world. The Winter Soldier did not ask for years upon years of torture and torment. The Winter Soldier endured and adapted in order to survive. The Winter Soldier became the stuff of nightmares because he could do nothing other than become such a beast. A creature like the Winter Soldier deserved the peace of obliteration; it would have been a mercy. Now Steve understands that Bucky _is_ the Winter Soldier just as the Winter Soldier is Bucky. They are two halves of the same whole and that’s the saddest thing Steve’s thought about in a long time.

Even with his responsibility for the death of Krista Paulson absolved, Steve is still mired in guilt—and confusion. He understands (though he does not condone) the Winter Soldier’s reasoning for killing Krista and Michael, but the murders were so horrific—which were not like the Winter Soldier, Steve doesn’t think, not if he was only dispatching witnesses. There’s something here that he isn’t seeing and he cannot put his finger on what it is. He can’t shake the feeling off anymore than he can rid himself of the thought that this time was the last time he will ever see Bucky. He wants to know how long Bucky waited for him and wonders if maybe he had come home sooner if they could have talked longer. It seems like a long shot, but his emotions and his mind have turned against him on this front, berating him for staying at the nursing home for so long. He went to see Peggy because he has nowhere else to go and no one else to truly talk to. She was having a good day—one of her rare fully functional on-this-planet-for-the-long-haul days—and they talked and laughed reminiscing about the past.

Steve told her about what he’s been getting up to late at night just like he told her all about Bucky after the Project Insight debacle. He’d still been bruised up with stitches holding the bullet holes closed, but he’d needed to get it out. Peggy is his confessor, the one person he can always go to because she _gets it_ when she’s with the rest of the class. He laid his cheek on the crisp, cool sheets of her bedside tonight and told her that he thought he might have killed someone. He took comfort from the way her gnarled old fingers stroked over his hair as she told him, “It’s going to be all right, Steve. Don’t you dare go doing anything foolish like turning yourself in until you’re absolutely certain.”

Steve stayed for dinner, eating two trays of rest home food like it was the best thing in the world. To be fair, Peggy is in a really nice facility, so the food actually is edible. He stayed until she fell asleep sometime shortly after eight o’clock and then he puttered around, helping the nurses with rounds, turning patients and emptying bedpans. They love him at Serene Waters Retirement Home because he actually does that a good bit. If Peggy’s having a plain old bad day, Steve still tends to stick around and make like the world’s most strapping candy-striper. 

Now he wants to get right back up, go to the home and wake Peggy to tell her all about this latest development to get her take on it. It’s a selfish thought to have, but he can’t stop it. However, he can refrain from getting up and going to disturb her, so he stays put. Sometimes he’s amazed that she doesn’t resent him for all of these things, for still being young when she is so old, but Peggy doesn’t. She’s above such petty things, Steve thinks, but he’s always had a tendency to put people he admires and cares about up on a pedestal. Case in point being Bucky because even after all the damage he has wrought, the destruction he has strewn in his path like a tornado, he still has not been knocked down one iota in Steve’s estimation of him.

With a sigh, Steve turns his head to look out the window and notices that the blinds in the apartment across the way are closed tonight. He wonders where his mysterious neighbor is at and hopes the guy is having a better time than Steve is right now. He feels elated and sick with loss as old as he is at the same time. It makes him woozy and he closes his eyes, letting the secret world behind his eyelids spin away and take him with it.

He ends up back in second grade at recess, playing with a couple of old trucks that the paint flaked off of years ago. The sky is overcast, full of heavy clouds that make the whole world look grey, but Steve has his best pal Bucky to keep some of the doldrums away. He starts coughing though and on the couch, Steve winces, but lets the memory come. It doesn’t do to forget who he used to be; it makes him better at being who he is to keep those things close. He knows what happens here though and his mouth turns down in a frown. Little Steve coughs into his fist, coughs until his throat is raw and his bony shoulders are hunched in close. It hurts his stomach to cough so hard, the _clench-release-clench-release_ of his abdominal muscles the worst kind of exercise you could ever ask for.

That day on the playground, Steve hacked and coughed so much he wet his pants right there where anyone could see. His face had burned bright red and he was still little enough that he hadn’t really tried to stop the hot, shameful tears that poured down his face when he realized what was happening. He’d been sitting in a crappy old sandbox that had most of the sand kicked out of it years ago and weeds sprouted up through what was left. A little puddle formed under his bottom and Steve bowed his head and cried some more—and he was still coughing for an extra dose of embarrassment.

 _What’s wrong, Steve?_ Bucky asked, instantly concerned.

 _I… I… I wet myself,_ Steve said in a choked, tiny voice. _I’m sorry._

 _Cripes,_ Bucky said. _Why’d you do that for?_

 _I couldn’t help it,_ Steve said, about two seconds away from outright wailing. He was dying on the inside, eat up with awful, terrible shame so deep he thought he’d never recover. _Sometimes it happens ‘cause of the coughing._ It usually happened at home when he was asleep, when he got to coughing so bad he woke himself up around the same time his full bladder couldn’t take the strain of his barking any longer. _Usually_ that’s when it happened, but not always, though that was the first time it happened at school.

 _All right,_ Bucky said after a minute. _Okay. We hafta tell Mrs. Busby. She’ll know what to do._

 _I can’t go over there, Bucky!_ Steve cried.

 _Then I’ll go get her. You stay here, okay?_ Bucky was already standing up. _I’ll make it all right, just you see._ Even then he had been resolute and so sure of himself about everything that Steve couldn’t help but envy and admire him at times.

 _‘Kay,_ Steve said.

Bucky trotted off and Steve sat there trying not to squirm in the nasty yuck of his own urine mixing with the dirt and sand. He saw Bucky talking to Mrs. Busby, who was the sweetest teacher they ever had. Steve saw the moment the pity crossed her face and knew Bucky had just told her the super bad part of it. At the same time, Tommy Kiernan sauntered by with a group of his pals. Tommy and his friends were fourth graders and they picked on the younger kids every chance they got. Seeing tiny, sickly Steve Rogers sitting in the sandbox with his khakis soaked with urine had made his day.

 _Hey everybody, Steve Rogers peed his pants!_ Tommy called, ignoring Steve’s, _Tommy… please don’t._ the moment he realized Tommy had seen everything. Steve hunched over on himself, but the puddle had spread beneath him in a big, dark irregular circle and there was no hiding it.

 _Stevie Pee Pants!_ Tommy crowed. _Everybody look at Little Stevie Pee Pants!_

That had been all Tommy managed before a smaller, darker shape hurtled into him, broadsiding the bigger boy with a rebel yell. Mrs. Busby was in hot pursuit, crying out, _Boys! Stop that at once! BOYS!_

That day Steve got sent home because he wet his pants and he got to walk home with Bucky because he got suspended for wailing on Tommy Kiernan (who also got suspended). Steve walked with Bucky’s light coat tied around his waist to hide the back of his ruined trousers, his books held down at waist level swinging from their leather strap to hide the front. Bucky had slung his arm over Steve’s shoulders and beamed at him like he didn’t have a care in the world although he had toilet paper stuffed in both nostrils because Tommy busted his nose and his left eye was ringed with a shiny new bruise. Even though he was ashamed of being alive right then, Steve had smiled back at Bucky and thought, _I’ve got the best friend in the whole wide world._

Steve didn’t know it back then, but he knows it now: that was the exact moment he started falling in love with Bucky. By the time he was old enough to actually recognize the feeling he was well and truly a goner. He still is. The Bucky that sat in his apartment tonight probably would not believe that, but Steve can’t help what he thinks. He can only wish he gets the chance to prove it to Bucky even if it takes him the rest of their lives. There is no guarantee that’s going to happen though, Steve has already thought that. It doesn’t keep him from hoping with all his heart that Bucky will keep his word and come see him again.

“Please, please come back,” Steve whispers under his breath as he sits there and stares at the blank screen of the television like Bucky had. He wants to know what it is Bucky sees when he looks at himself. Does he see a man or does he see a monster? Steve figures he already knows the answer and that hurts, too. It’s another thing he wants the chance to prove Bucky wrong about.

After a while, Steve rouses himself from the sofa, takes a shower and changes into his pajamas. It feels ridiculous to be doing such normal things after everything that has happened, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t punch anyone in the face over this, he can’t go kick in doors and demand answers. All he can do is carry on with his life and wait for Bucky to come back, if he comes back at all. Steve stretches out on his bed and stares up at the ceiling until he falls asleep without realizing it. He doesn’t dream of anything except the ice, soothing, obliterating ice the crackling static blue of eternity.

Steve spends the next day being Captain Couch Potato. He doesn’t answer the phone, he doesn’t turn on the television. He just sits and reads, draws a little bit. Mostly he just waits though, waits until he is too sleepy and disgusted with himself for parking himself on the sofa the entire day. Then he gets up, showers and brushes his teeth once he’s in his pajamas again. Then he relocates to his other favorite spot: his bed. Tomorrow is a big day though and he can’t sit around at home feeling sorry for himself. There is that much to look forward to. 

Steve spends Thanksgiving with Peggy at the home and fills her in over truly delicious (once he’s salted it) roast turkey and gravy. She reaches out and touches his cheek with a sweet, sad smile. “Steve, Steve, Steve. My poor Steve. You are so in love with him, aren’t you, my dear?”

It takes Steve a long time to get over his surprise at her knowing so easily before he can say, “I think I’ve always been in love with him.” He says it to his roasted Brussels sprouts while he picks at his creamed potatoes.

Her soft laughter is gentle and then she says, “I’m not at all surprised.”

Halfway through her pumpkin pie, Peggy checks out and has a really bad episode. One where she screams and curses, says some of the most god-awful things Steve has ever heard that are made all the worse because it’s _Peggy_ shrieking about _cunt-fucking whore master cock-knockers_. She spits at Steve and tries to bite his face. He helps a nurse restrain Peggy while she gives her a sedative to help her rest. Then he excuses himself to the restroom in Peggy’s suite where he stays until he stops shaking and choking on tears that he refuses to let fall because he thinks he has no right to them.

The rest of Thanksgiving he spends in the main common room of the facility, visiting with the other residents and swapping war stories with the few veterans there in possession of their faculties. Steve’s not only a good helper and a big hit with the staff, the residents absolutely adore him, too, even the ones who don’t recognize him as Captain America. He can talk about their heyday like he was right there with them and they think it’s great; a young person so interested in the history that they all lived.

The day after Thanksgiving, Steve has another dinner with Sam, his sister and their one surviving aunt. The woman is a fabulous cook and calls Steve “baby” and pats his cheek. He feels right at home with the Wilson clan; as bad as he feels about it, he has to admit that it’s a much better Thanksgiving than the one he had with Peggy. She calls him later that evening when he’s at home again and apologizes profusely. Steve tells her it’s okay and ignores the way her voice is choked with tears and regret.

“I hate that I’m like this, Steven,” she tells him in a shaking voice. “I’m more than ready for this ride to be over because _this is not me_. Do you understand?”

It kills Steve to say it, but he can’t lie to Peggy either. He won’t. “I do, Peggy, I do.”

“Right then,” she says. “On to happier topics while I can still manage them. Shall we?”

“We shall,” Steve says with a small smile.

They talk for over an hour and then she has to go because it’s time for her bath and her hair, as she puts it, is quite a fright. Something must be done. It makes Steve laugh as he tells her goodbye for now. Then he sits and resumes his waiting like he has every night since Bucky appeared like a magic trick in his apartment. He glances out the window, as has become habit, finds the blinds in the apartment across the way open tonight and snaps a lazy salute in that direction before he gets a book to read while he waits.

It’s a week and a half before Steve sees Bucky again. Christmas season is in full swing and the crowds on the streets are an absolute madhouse. Steve ventures out only long enough to buy himself a Christmas tree and some decorations. He’s discovered online shopping recently—a bit behind the curve, sure, but that is okay—and thinks he’ll be doing his gift buying that way so he can avoid the thronging masses. He goes to bed that night in pretty decent spirits for a change, cheered by the sparkling lights, glittering ornaments and shining tinsel on his tree. Steve thinks it turned out rather spiffy all around. 

Sometime around three o’clock that morning, he jerks awake because he thinks he hears something. As soon as he’s awake, he is aware of someone in the room with him and sits up in bed, a demand that the person standing at the foot of his bed identify themselves on the tip of his tongue.

“Hello,” Bucky says before Steve can speak.

“Jesus, Bucky!” Steve says as he huffs out a breath, slumping back against the headboard. He’s smiling though, heart thumping madly in his chest, pounding in his temples from fading adrenaline and new excitement. _He came back! He came back!_ the overexcited child inside of Steve cries as he runs around in circles. Steve rubs the sleep from his eyes and says, “You know, there is this thing called knocking. You could try that.”

“I could,” Bucky agrees. “It’s easier to pick the lock though.”

“What if I had put the chain on?”

“You never use the chain,” Bucky says.

“Just how much do you watch me?” Steve asks.

“Enough,” Bucky says.

“Most people would call that stalking,” Steve tells him.

There is a drawn out silence while Bucky mulls that over. Then, “What would you call it?”

“Stalking,” Steve says with a soft laugh. He glances at Bucky who has not moved even an inch since he woke Steve up. He can see him well enough to know he’s looking at the wall just to Steve’s left, not actually at Steve. He wonders what that’s all about. Hell, he wonders what to do with Bucky, period. “It’s okay though. I don’t mind if you stalk me.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Steve says. “It’s you. You’ve always been around.”

“I was dead for over seventy years,” Bucky says. “On and off.”

Steve can hear the confusion, the frown, in his voice, but he only shrugs. He’s happy. No matter how weird this is—and have no doubt, it _is_ weird—Steve is still happy.

“So was I, except there was no _on_ ,” Steve says. “Doesn’t mean you ever really died for me though.”

“I don’t understand,” Bucky says slowly.

Steve thinks he’s lying, thinks Bucky understands what he’s saying _just fine_ , he just doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s willing to let that go for now though because the last thing he wants to do is make Bucky so uncomfortable he leaves again.

“That’s all right,” Steve says, mind racing, trying to think of something he can do. Talking to Bucky the way he is now is not easy and asking him questions only makes him cagey, which is another way to make him leave. After a few minutes, Steve lights on the simplest idea in the world. “So, hey,” he says.

Bucky turns his head just enough Steve knows he’s glanced his way. Steve smiles at him and Bucky stares back. Good enough.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“You want to watch a picture with me?” Steve asks.

“That would be acceptable,” Bucky says after another long silence. He really does seem to have a difficult time speaking casually. It makes Steve sad-sad-sad all over again, but he shoves it down and gets out of bed.

“Then c’mon, Buck,” Steve says as he walks by him. “I’ve got the perfect movie, I think.” He glances over his shoulder at Bucky following along behind him, a little hesitant, but not backing down either. He seems committed to this. Good. “Have you ever seen _The Breakfast Club_?”

“No,” Bucky says.

“You’re gonna love it,” Steve says.

Bucky quirks one eyebrow at that, but sits down on the couch when Steve motions for him to do so. Then he goes about setting up the movie.

They watch the movie in complete silence, Bucky fixated on the screen and Steve mostly watching him from the corner of his eye. Once in a while Bucky will cut his eyes to the side—he knows Steve is watching him, but he doesn’t fidget under the scrutiny though he seems a long way from relaxed, too. He sits right on the edge of the sofa, shoulders squared and spine straight enough it could double as a yard stick.

Then there are the clothes, such a minor thing as a rule, but they’re baffling, incongruous with all that Steve knows (or thinks he does). The suit he is wearing is obviously tailored to fit him, just like the one he had on that first night, though this one is deep charcoal grey. The vest he’s wearing is blue so dark it is almost black and his tie is the same color as his suit. His shirt is pearl grey. His boots are expensive, but have an oddly military look about them, like classier combat boots and Steve would bet they have steel toes. It seems like the sort of thing Bucky would stick to, just like he’s probably got some kind of weapon on him. Steve’s fingers itch to draw Bucky, but he’s not sure how he would take that with the way he is now. He decides he will draw him later and commits as much detail to memory as he can. 

When the movie is over, Bucky says nothing, only stares at the television like he’s still watching something. Steve shifts uncomfortably and says, “What did you think of the movie?”

“It was fine,” Bucky says. He licks his lips, fingers flexing lightly against his knees. Two fingers on his left hand tap out a quick rhythm that Bucky seems to catch himself at and opens his hand again, smoothing his fingers back down. There is the soft whirr and click of the plates on his arm shifting back into place again. “I… I liked… the… I liked the… I liked the basket case. The one who said she drank vodka. I don’t understand though… why they… had to _fix_ her. New clothes don’t make new people.”

“I thought you would like Bender,” Steve says. “But yeah, I get what you mean about the basket case. You should just be yourself, right?”

“He was too reckless, careless, but he was… okay. Interesting. A… basket case, too… I think,” Bucky says. “But… maybe you shouldn’t always… be yourself. It’s not always a good thing. She… didn’t do… anything though. It was… was… dumb. Yes. Dumb. Mean.”

Steve thinks about that and tells himself not to prod too much, but he’s worried. He can’t help it. “Bucky, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” Steve says.

“I’m fine,” Bucky repeats as he starts tapping his fingers against his knee again. _Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…_ He follows the sequence through all the way then begins it again. He’s going slower this time and Steve instantly recognizes it as his military I.D. number.

“Okay, you’re fine,” Steve says, not believing that for a minute. Bucky is wearing expensive clothes, so he must be doing pretty well financially, but he is _not_ fine. Not even close. “Look, I have to ask you something, so please don’t bail on me.”

Bucky sits for a moment, eyes fixed on middle distance. Finally, he nods. “Ask.”

“Do you worry about HYDRA finding you?” Steve asks and thinks, _Are you working for them again? Did I have it all wrong all this time?_

“No,” Bucky says. “HYDRA has written me off as a loss or they would have come for me by now. Without a team of handlers, I am untraceable. Putting anything on me could have impeded my ability to do my job when it necessitated I enter certain areas or do certain things. My arm can get past most metal detectors because of what it’s made of, but a tracking device of any kind would not have been so sophisticated. I was alone when I jumped into the river and there was no one there to see me leave the scene. I am most likely presumed dead. A very expensive piece of equipment lost to them and they are probably angry, but there is no reason to look for me. Even if they tried, there is no way for them to find me.”

It’s the most Bucky has said since he showed up at Steve’s place. He’s thought about this—of course he has thought about this. It would have been one of the first things he would have put his mind to; whether or not HYDRA would try to run him to ground again. It was also the _easiest_ time he’s had speaking that Steve’s heard. It occurs to him that the difference between what he just said versus when Bucky was trying to talk about the movie is that the HYDRA spiel sounded a lot like Bucky was giving a _report_ , not attempting a conversation.

“You’re not equipment,” Steve says, aghast at the idea, but he knows the score, too. He has, after all, read the file on Bucky until he has it committed to memory.

“To them I was nothing but a machine,” Bucky says. “I was their Winter Soldier. He was not a person, he was only a thing.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I have no feelings about it one way or the other,” Bucky says. “It’s done now. In the past. They won’t ever do it to me again.”

“Because you won’t let them,” Steve says.

“Exactly,” Bucky says.

And that tells Steve there is a half truth in what he said prior to that—it isn’t all in the past, Bucky does have feelings about it. He is angry and resentful, as well he should be. They’re negative emotions, but at least they’re _emotions_ because his tone of voice carries no inflection at all; Steve has to infer from his word choices alone.

“What are you doing to get by?” Steve asks and then winces. It’s another question and one Bucky has made clear he doesn’t want to answer.

“Charity work,” Bucky says.

“Stop _lying_ , Bucky.”

“Then stop asking.”

Steve sighs and slumps down on the sofa, contents himself for a minute with openly watching Bucky while he regroups and tries to think of something _safe_ to talk about. This time Bucky is not at all aware of Steve watching him even though he’s far more blatant about it. Bucky is staring again, looking at nothing at all, just _gone_.

Wait.

No.

That isn’t right.

Bucky isn’t staring blankly off into space, his eyes are moving, tracking something only he can see. Steve’s heart jumps in his chest as he watches Bucky trace the movement of _whatever_ it is around the room; back, forth, up, down. He flinches ever so slightly before he smoothes his expression out again. A moment later he squeezes his eyes closed hard before opening them again.

Then he stands up and Steve’s heart doesn’t jump that time, it leaps into his throat and sticks there. He reaches out and grabs Bucky’s hand in his, feels the smooth leather of his glove under his fingers and the unyielding metal just beneath that.

“Stay,” he says and tightens his grip the littlest bit when Bucky jerks like he’s been shocked. “Please. _Just stay._ ”

After a long minute, Bucky sits back down.

“Thank you,” Steve breathes out, closing his eyes in relief and shivering all over. It’s clingy and desperate and weird of him, but he’s so sick of Bucky falling out of his life. It doesn’t seem right for him to come back into it only to keep walking away from him when they’ve hardly spent any time together.

He doesn’t let go of Bucky and when he opens his eyes again, Bucky is staring down at their joined hands like they’re a peculiar species of insect he’s never seen before. Steve smiles and feels his pulse quicken when Bucky lifts his gaze to finally— _finally_ —meet Steve’s eyes. He looks bewildered, the slightest bit angry and a lot afraid, the flinching in his eyes so pronounced that Steve can barely comprehend it.

“Bucky,” Steve says as he moves closer to him. Bucky tenses, but he doesn’t bolt. Steve just wants him to be all right and he knows—he really does know—that Bucky will probably _never_ be all right again. But that’s the thing about wishes; they don’t have to make sense.

He’s not thinking again when he kisses Bucky, he just wants to feel his mouth against his for real instead of only imagining it. Bucky goes stiff, a sound of surprise and maybe more fear caught in the back of his throat at the contact. Steve pulls away almost instantly, ashamed of himself because he remembers how Bucky flinched when he touched his shoulder the other night. If he had been uncomfortable with that then he must be beyond upset with this latest trespass.

Steve looks at him with big eyes and scrubs his hand through his hair. “I am _so sorry_ ,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid and thoughtless and—”

He cuts off with a grunt when Bucky takes his face in his hands and pulls him in for another kiss. It’s like kissing a drowning man starving for air, there’s skill there—more proof that Bucky _does_ have his memory back—but that skill is nearly outweighed by the animal hunger of the kiss. It’s desperate and deep as Bucky pushes closer to Steve, so close Steve is actually leaning back a little, Bucky half on top of him. He puts his hand on the back of Bucky’s neck and holds on as he tries to match the ferocity of the kiss, want clashing with want built up over nearly a century. Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair and it is as satiny smooth as he remembers and just as thick, his fingers sinking into it as his breath hitches in his chest and he lays back on the couch completely. Bucky goes with him and for those few seconds, it’s wild, it’s great; it feels like coming home.

Then Bucky jerks away from him, eyes flying wide like a dreaming man who has just been kicked. He stares at Steve and looks like he wants to scream, mouth working, forming words that Steve can’t read on his lips. He looks like he’s in agony and Steve doesn’t know what to do to make it better, but he knows he has to try.

“Buck—” he starts as he sits up on the couch.

But Bucky isn’t listening. He gets up from the sofa and flies toward the front door, steps so light he hardly makes a sound. Even like this, Steve can see how he’d made such a topnotch assassin—his targets probably never had a clue, even if he was right behind them.

“Bucky!” Steve yells as he gets up to go after him. He doesn’t think it was the kiss, Bucky _never_ freaked out before. It’s just Bucky, whatever it is that’s wrong with him can get to him at any time and boy, did it ever just get to him. Steve can’t even begin to comprehend what it’s like being Bucky Barnes these days, but it’s got to be miserable. He’s so badly damaged that Steve probably can’t ever fix him (and okay, he hasn’t completely abandoned that silly wish) but he won’t let him run out of his life forever again.

Or so he thinks.

Steve hauls ass down the stairs after Bucky, but he doesn’t even catch sight of him. When he slams the front door of the building open and races out onto the sidewalk, the street is empty in the pre-dawn stillness. Steve slumps over his knees and lets out a heavy breath.

“Bucky!” he yells again.

Only the echo of his voice answers him back.


	9. Chapter 9

_I want you bad like a natural disaster._   
_You are all I see. You are the only one I want to know._

— Henry Rollins   
_Solipsist_

Bucky stands by a heavy metal door and plays at being bodyguard while he listens to Giovinazzo talk to a couple of guys from the Polish camp. Giovinazzo says the Pollacks aren’t real contenders in this war for power between the Irish, Italians and Russians, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need to be dealt with either. Just because they don’t _seem_ like they could be a problem does not mean they won’t _become_ one later on. This war is a huge power struggle, everyone pushing and shoving to be at the top of the heap when it comes to organized crime. It’s not a new story, not even close, but for many years the Italians have been forced down low on the totem pole where once they were at the top. It is Giovinazzo’s goal to reclaim the power the Italian mafia once had. _La cosa nostra_ will rise again, he says.

He talks to Bucky a good bit because Bucky is a good listener. Giovinazzo actually seems to _like_ Bucky, too, which he finds bizarre because he is far from likeable these days. Antony Giovinazzo is not a kind or gentle man, but he has Bucky’s respect in a way none of his other employers do, so he copes with being liked well enough. He thinks he might even like that Giovinazzo likes him; there is something both familiar and different to Bucky about their relationship. Giovinazzo more than anyone else he works for feels like a handler, albeit a different breed of handler—one who treats Bucky like a human being and respects him just as much as Bucky respects Giovinazzo. That has never happened before and it’s… nice.

He stands by the door, listening with one ear to the conversation at a table near the center of the room. A lot of shady dealings go down in warehouses, Bucky has learned. This particular warehouse is a chop-shop, too and there are cars in various states of dismantlement parked all around them, chrome glinting eerily in the weak light from the one pair of fluorescent lights on over the table. He watches ghosts drift in and out of the puddles of shadows like they’re growing from them. He dances across the floor with a pretty redhead whose name he can no longer remember, but she’s laughing at something he said. These ghosts have no sound though, so he has no idea what the joke was. At a table that goes halfway through a Monte Carlo, Steve sits frowning into a beer. Bucky wonders if this was before or after he broke his heart, but he has no idea, the memory is too hazy for him to grasp all the details. Bucky-that-was sits back down at the table with him, head poking up through the hood of the car and Steve smiles at him though it seems forced even in the bad light.

It has been three days since he kissed Steve then ran away from him. His meat arm is a network of bite marks, some so severe they will leave ugly scars behind. He screamed and screamed once he was locked safely in his apartment again. The pain was horrible, emanating from somewhere in the middle of his corrupt brain and running through him like a river of fire. He should not have gone back. He should not have stayed as long as he did. He definitely should not have kissed Steve, but oh, he had wanted to. To want anything at all sends Bucky into a tailspin more often than not and what he has discovered is that the more he wants something, the worse the fallout will be later. He wants Steve above all other things. The world could burn to ash around him and Bucky would not care as long as he still had Steve when the smoke cleared.

He heard Steve calling his name and had wanted to go back to him, fly right back into Steve’s arms. Into his warmth and his smell and his beautiful familiarity. Instead, Bucky had run like he was being driven by a team of demons, ran until he could run no more. Then he’d trudged back home, head no clearer than it was when he bolted from Steve’s apartment. He felt like a robot, kept telling himself he was not real because real people do not behave the way he behaved. The sun was up and the birds were singing by the time he made it to his apartment. He sat at his table after the first wave of screaming was over and watched Steve drawing in a large sketchbook balanced on his knees. He looked awful sitting there, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes that said he had not slept, shoulders tense. He kept rubbing at his eyes, not like he was crying, but maybe like he had been. Like they still burned from the salt of his tears. Bucky knew that was his fault—he _did that_ to Steve, had hurt him despite his promise to never do such a thing again. He had failed so grossly it made his breath hitch in his chest with such pain he thought he was suffocating.

Bucky had carefully rolled up his shirt sleeve already splotched with blood from the previous bites and set about systematically biting out a hunk of his own flesh that he then chewed and swallowed because he can’t leave biologics scattered around the place. He had to burn the pearl grey shirt he’d been wearing because it was beyond salvaging. It was no great loss.

His arm is mostly healed now, but the urge to bite himself has grown with time. It’s a great comfort to lose himself in the pain of it and now it’s becoming ritualized; he makes every effort to space the bites evenly and takes his time with it. He’s sure there is a term for what he’s doing to himself, but he doesn’t care and even if he knew he wouldn’t stop because it makes him feel so much better. A little skin, a little meat, a lot of blood… they’re a very small price to pay for some peace of mind. When he’s done the pain is soothing, tending the wounds is a welcome distraction and he feels almost stoned with relaxation due to the endorphin rush the biting triggers in his brain. He needs it and that’s odd, but needing the pain of biting himself is far more preferable to the horror of wanting things—of wanting Steve.

“Goodnight, gentlemen and thank you for your time.” Giovinazzo’s voice pulls Bucky back front and center, totally alert as he watches the man rise from the table and shake hands with the men he’s been talking to.

He walks toward Bucky and smiles at him as he says, “Tell these nice men goodnight, Mr. Winter.”

Bucky nods then raises his right hand to cough into his cupped palm, spitting out the single-edge razor blade he’s been holding in his mouth for hours. It’s a code that he and Giovinazzo agreed upon if the meeting with the Polish did not go well. Apparently, while Bucky was more tuned out, something did not go the way Giovinazzo wanted it to and he has deemed these people too much of a liability to allow them to carry on. There are two men still sitting at the table and four more standing back behind them; their own security team. They had smirked when they saw that Giovinazzo only brought one man with him tonight—at least they had until he introduced Bucky as James Winter. Then they stopped smirking and starting looking a little uncomfortable. He has already become a legend in organized crime circles, a beast come from God knows where that will lay waste to any target he is pointed at. They are wise to be afraid of him.

Now Bucky approaches them with a genial smile on his face—he’s been practicing his expressions lately in case such a need as this arises that he will have to use them—and extends his left hand, razor blade held between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. The first man extends his own hand to shake Bucky’s, having relaxed some at the appearance of his smile. Bucky has a nice smile—a _pretty_ smile he’s been told—and nothing is quite so disarming as a friendly smile and the offer of a hearty handshake. It’s Manipulation 101, something Bucky was taught should he ever need to fall back on it, but had rarely used because he was an assassin, not a spy. Assassins aren’t often required to make nice with people before they terminate them. It’s rather counterproductive, really and draws out what is not meant to be—should not be—a lengthy process.

“Goodnight, gentlemen,” Bucky says as the first man takes his hand. When his fingers close around Bucky’s metal ones, he yanks him closer and in one smooth motion, he cuts his throat from ear to ear with such force the pink-white of bone is visible for a split second before a flood of red spews from the gash.

The other man tries to flee, but Bucky releases the man he’s just killed, snatches up a ballpoint pen from the tabletop and closes the small gap between them. He uses the man’s body as a shield when the four goons start shooting and jams the pen right through the man’s ear and deep into his brain. He throws his body at the men with guns like he weighs no more than a feather pillow and goes in low right behind him. He has no gun on him to use, they were searched before they entered the warehouse and any firearm he might have brought would have only been taken away. Bucky does not need guns to kill though and he makes relatively short work of the thugs by breaking two of their necks, crushing one’s larynx and using the knife he took from the fourth to gut him. One did manage to shoot him, a through-and-through to his right shoulder, but it barely slowed him down. Pain does not affect the ability of the Winter Soldier to do his job and it does not affect James Winter or Bucky Barnes either. If he has a task before him, short of cutting off his head, nothing is going to stop him until he has completed the assignment.

He’s not even winded after brutally murdering six people and when it’s over, he turns and walks back to Mr. Giovinazzo who is standing beside the door looking pleased. He smiles at Bucky and then surprises him when he begins clapping.

“Beautiful, Winter,” he says. “That was just beautiful. Like watching a wolf take down an elk.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky says. He needs to wash the blood off, he’s wearing it like a second skin. There is a restroom on the other side of the office, Giovinazzo told him about it before they arrived. “I am going to wash now.”

“Of course, of course,” Giovinazzo says, waving his hand at him in a _go on then_ gesture. “I’ll get your bag from the trunk and then I’ll call in the cleaners. Did you get hurt?”

“Yes, a minor wound to the shoulder that went straight through. I will attend to it. I am proficient at self-maintenance.”

There is a first-aid kit along with the extra clothes he brought. The Winter Soldier was well trained in all aspects of physical self-maintenance, from the treatment of minor scrapes and burns, to dealing with insect or snake bites, all the way to the ability to perform relatively complicated field surgery on himself if circumstances required he do so. One of the greatest assets the Winter Soldier had was his high intelligence and the ability to learn even the most complex tasks with ease. Bucky Barnes was a very smart man and he had passed that intelligence on to the asset. Of course he had. 

Giovinazzo whistles low behind him and mutters, “Goddamn,” around a soft, shocked laugh.

He doesn’t take his clothes off until Giovinazzo brings his bag, he can’t risk the man seeing his arm. There would be too many questions asked about it that he will not answer. Once he has the bag in his possession, Bucky strips down and tends his wound, stitching it closed and covering it with a thick wrapping of gauze. Before he dresses in his fresh suit, Bucky cleans the bathroom as per his training. The cleaners will likely go over it again, but it’s second nature to him to clean up his own blood in order to get rid of any evidence he might leave behind.

Satisfied that the washroom is clean again, Bucky dresses himself in a clean black suit and pulls on fresh leather gloves then packs away his other suit and gloves for later disposal. The coat, shirt and vest are not salvageable due to the bullet hole punching through all three garments, the blood will have ruined the leather of the gloves and his pants are soaked with the stuff. That is multiple articles of clothing he has lost in less than a week. He will need to go shopping soon. It’s not a task he enjoys, but it is a necessary one because James Winter does not wear cheap, unattractive clothing.

Bucky doesn’t know how that aspect of his persona came about, but it works for him. He thinks it might have something to do with the way Bucky-that-was used to dress. Something a little like an ongoing eulogy or a memorial to the man he can never be again, a nod to the man he used to know. Bucky-that-was had not worn expensive clothes, but he’d always been togged to the bricks as best his monetary limitations would allow. He’d actually spent too much money on clothing, truth be told, but he’d liked looking nice and even more, he had liked the way Steve looked at him in his crisp suits. The way Steve would run his ties through his thin fingers or rub the soft silk of his best tie against his cheek when he hugged Bucky.

“I am ready,” Bucky announces to Giovinazzo when he steps out of the washroom.

“Then let’s go,” Giovinazzo says, looking up from his reflection in the hood of a classic Camaro. He taps ash from a cigarette and smiles at Bucky. “You did good work tonight, Winter. Real good.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky says as he walks by Giovinazzo to take the lead and scan for any danger he might have missed.

Giovinazzo follows behind him and they make it to the car unmolested. Bucky opens the back door for him and waits for the man to slide into the backseat before closing it and going around to the driver’s side.

“Let me ask you something, Winter,” Giovinazzo says as they pull away.

Bucky nods. “If you wish.”

“Were you military by chance?”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“How long?”

“A long time,” Bucky says.

“Too long, you think?”

“I have no opinion on the matter.”

“Were you special forces?”

Bucky almost smiles at that. “In a way,” he allows. “I was a soldier.”

“Trained for this kind of thing?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. He repeats what Zola told him many years ago, reporting it to Giovinazzo because he is yet again struck by the feeling that Giovinazzo is his new handler. “I am a bringer of death. My only directive is to kill. It is my duty to serve my keepers in such a capacity. Failure is not an option.”

Giovinazzo snorts out another surprised laugh. “That’s putting it mildly. You’re a one man army.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky says. “My training was intended to make me such.”

“Some kind of secret program?”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“You wanna tell me what kind?”

“No,” Bucky says. “It is not relevant because it is over now.”

Giovinazzo is quiet for a few miles though Bucky can _feel_ the man thinking. It’s another thing he likes about Giovinazzo—he’s smart with a mind for lethality that is only surpassed by Bucky’s own. It is no surprise that Giovinazzo has become the new _capo dei capi_ of the mafia family he is a part of. His insistence on handling most things on his own instead of delegating responsibility to underlings far less capable is another mark in his favor. He is a man with great power, but he is not afraid to get his hands dirty. Yes, Bucky thinks, he does like Antony Giovinazzo quite a lot.

“I don’t know how to put this to you gently, so I’m gonna come right out and say it,” Giovinazzo begins. “You listening?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says.

“You are seriously fucked in the head, Winter,” Giovinazzo says. “I don’t know what the people who trained you did to you, but they messed you up big time in the process.”

“I am aware,” Bucky says.

“And you’re good with that?”

“No,” Bucky says after a while spent thinking _how_ to make the words so his explanation is clear, but also doesn’t give anything away. “However, there is nothing I can do to repair the damage.”

“So you just deal with it?” Giovinazzo asks.

“I have no other option,” Bucky says.

He drives straight through his entire family gathered on some long forgotten beach, posing for Steve as he takes their picture with a crappy camera he found somewhere. Bucky knows that Steve later took that photograph and made a large drawing out of it that he then gave to Bucky’s mother for her birthday. He’d made a frame for it that he’d carefully painted black and Bucky’s mother had pinched his cheeks then kissed each one in turn. That had made Steve turn beet red and smile so hugely his face looked like it would split. That drawing hung over their couch forever after that, had still been hanging there the day Bucky shipped off to war never to return.

“Does it bother you, killing people?” Giovinazzo asks.

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m good at it. It’s all I know how to do. Does it bother you, Mr. Giovinazzo?”

“Nah,” Giovinazzo says and Bucky hears the truth in that. “I like watching you work. It’s like art.”

“It can be,” Bucky agrees after another long silence where he tries to think how to respond to that because he knows he should. He also knows he _must_ try to relearn the skill of conversation, but even as smart as he is, that still leaves him floundering. He thinks he might be doing all right though. Maybe. Then he thinks how Steve would never understand that murder is an art in its own way. How he would be absolutely horrified to hear Bucky say such a thing. Which is why Bucky must never breathe a word of it to him even if he has almost mastered this particular breed of conversation.

“I remember the first guy I iced,” Giovinazzo says. “I didn’t do it nearly as well as you do. God, what a fuckin’ mess that was, you should’ve seen it. Awful.”

“But you got better.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement of fact. Giovinazzo is a killer with a cold streak a mile wide. That is actually another thing Bucky likes about him. They are not forged from the same cloth; Giovinazzo was not born from blood and pain the way the Winter Soldier was, but they are both killers who are beyond good at what they do. In that way, Bucky thinks, like speaks to like with the two of them.

“Oh, yeah,” Giovinazzo says with a low laugh. He has a voice like sandpaper and broken glass, which Bucky finds pleasant.

Bucky pulls around to the back of the club Giovinazzo works out of the most—Ballyhoo, the same club where Bucky usually picks up the second half of his payments from Kyle Strahan in the alley. He puts the car in park and is preparing to wish Giovinazzo a good night since he’s already been paid for this job when he says, “Come on up to my office with me, Winter. I want to give you a bonus and we need to discuss something of great importance in the meantime.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says. He gets out of the car and follows Giovinazzo into the club and up to his office.

Once there, Giovinazzo picks up a box with a bakery logo on the top and opens it. It’s filled with mini cupcakes; the man has a sweet tooth, Bucky has observed. Giovinazzo chooses a cupcake then takes another from the box that he offers to Bucky. It is small with about two inches of thick white icing swirled with blue, making it more frosting than cupcake. There is a little plastic snowflake done in silver and blue stuck in the frosting and there are little sparkly silver dots that look like BB gun pellets on it. It’s really a lot of work to go to for such a tiny confection.

Bucky takes it and continues to look at it until Giovinazzo says, “You’re supposed to eat it, Winter, not admire it.” He unwraps the paper from the bottom of his own, plucks off the little red and gold poinsettia decoration then pops the entire thing in his mouth.

Bucky watches him chew then follows suit. The first and only thing he tastes is _sweet_ , there’s so much sugar in the frosting that Bucky can feel it gritting in his teeth. It is not an enjoyable sensation at all. The silver BB pellets crunch under his teeth like tiny boulders and he doesn’t like that either. Then there is the taste of deep, rich chocolate and a juicy burst of sweet-tart cherry that is nice. He swallows and says, “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem,” Giovinazzo says as he puts the box aside. “We deserve a treat after the work we did tonight. Take a seat while I get your bonus and fix us a drink to cut through the sugar.”

Bucky does as he’s told and when he has his money tucked away inside his coat and a nice glass of smoky aged scotch in his hand, Giovinazzo leans forward, elbows on his desk and gets down to business. “I’m guessing by the way you operate that your training isn’t only in how to kill people, is it?”

“No,” Bucky says. His _job_ was to kill people, but he was trained for all eventualities. He thinks now that at some point he was probably intended to be used as a spy on occasion, but they later had no need of that though they did keep him up to date on methods more befitting a spy like Natasha Romanov than an assassin like the Winter Soldier. They liked to cover all of their bases is what it boils down to. In order to be the best operative he could be—and he was indeed the best—then Bucky had to be well-versed in all procedures and tactics.

Giovinazzo nods then pauses to light a cigarette before sipping his scotch. “Good,” he says when he’s ready. “I need you to look into something for me. I think we have a mole in our midst and if it turns out I’m right then I’m not going to be happy. You know what that means, right?”

“Of course,” Bucky says.

“That’s my boy,” Giovinazzo says with a smile. “So here’s what I need you to do…”

By the time Bucky is ready to leave, he has a new and most interesting assignment to occupy himself with. He pauses by the table with the mini cupcakes and gestures at the box. “May I have another?”

“Take all you want, Winter,” Giovinazzo says.

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky says as he flips up the lid of the box and chooses a mini cupcake with a tiny plastic Christmas tree and swirls of red and green icing edging along the white. It has tiny sprinkles shaped like fairy lights and a dusting of golden sanding sugar along the top. It’s the most elaborate in the whole box. Bucky thinks Steve will like it very much as he carefully holds it balanced on the palm of his right hand to keep his left free even as he tells himself he will not actually give it to Steve. “Have a good night, Mr. Giovinazzo.”

“Same to you,” Giovinazzo calls. “And happy holidays.”

Bucky cocks his head as he walks into the hall and then it all clicks into place. The decorations and the holiday-themed cupcakes. Christmas is fast approaching and he’s barely noticed; such things have no real bearing on him any longer.

He places the mini cupcake in the cup holder of his personal vehicle and drives home, careful not to take turns too sharply or drive too fast lest he jostle his tiny offering and ruin it. All goes well until he brakes to stop the car once he’s pulled into the parking space assigned to his apartment in his building’s underground garage. The motion of the brakes catching throws the cupcake off balance and it falls into the side of the cup holder. Bucky frowns down at it then picks it up to examine the damage. The frosting has been smashed, some of it left behind in the cup holder itself and the little plastic tree is askew. Overall assessment of the damage: minor.

Bucky pushes the frosting back into place, turning the white pinkish in places and diluted green in others. He readjusts the little tree. He thinks it looks all right then and carries it up to his apartment with him where he puts it on the table while he leans over and opens the closed blinds. A quick glance through the window shows that Steve is at home alone tonight and wide awake. He’s sitting on the couch reading, the lights of his cheerful little tree throwing dots and streaks of colored light along his pale gold skin.

Bucky glances down at the little cupcake then back to Steve again. He repeats the motion until he feels dizzy and his head is starting to throb from a build up of pressure. _The asset will… the asset will not… the asset will… the asset will not…_ Zola lays a phantom hand on his shoulder and whispers, _You are my soldier,_ right into Bucky’s ear. He jolts at the contact, so real he swears he can feel it and whirls around, eyes wide and searching. There is no one there; there has never been anyone there at all. Bucky leaves the room, already un-knotting his tie and shedding his jacket. He’s in desperate need of a shower. In dire need of some relief.

He stands under the scalding hot needle spray of his shower and bites his arm so hard the pain is like a slap and a petting hand at the same time. He screams and screams into his flesh as he shakes his head viciously, so hard he feels the skin begin to tear. He doesn’t let go until there is more blood than water running down his arm. Then he finds a new place and bites down there as well, repeating the process until he almost feels better. He finishes up by digging his metal fingers into the wound left by the bullet earlier, picking at the fresh, wet scab with ambition to bleed. The stitches pop and he pushes his index finger into the hole, finger-fucking the open wound until he is shaking from the pain of it. Only then does he truly feel better.

After his shower, Bucky dries off, re-stitches the bullet wound and covers it in gauze again. Done with that, he carefully attends to the six fresh bites on his arm, losing himself in the comforting haze of the ritual. He dresses himself when he is finished and feels ever so slightly bereft at no longer having to attend his wounds. Once the distraction is gone, reality—and with it, all of its ghosts—begins to leak back in and threaten to disrupt the pleasantly vague stupor the pain leaves behind. Bucky does not dally any longer though because he doesn’t like wasting time on frivolous tasks either. He goes into the living room and pulls his chair back from the table, prepared to sit down and pick up his watch again, when his gaze lands on the cupcake. Once more he glances across the way at Steve. Bucky grits his teeth. He taps his fingers. He counts backward from one hundred. He almost screams again and has to bite his tongue to stop from doing it.

With the taste of blood fresh and sharp in his mouth, he grabs the cupcake off the table, turns smartly on his heel and leaves the apartment again. He should not. Should not. Should not. Should not. His feet aren’t listening to him though and they carry him down the stairs, through the garage, out the emergency door on the far side of the garage, the alarm on which Bucky disarmed months ago. The door opens onto the rear of the building and Bucky walks around, coming up the street from the far end in case Steve is looking out the window. He does not want him to know where he lives, that would be disastrous, to say the least.

Into Steve’s building and up the stairs he goes, silent as a cat even as he takes the stairs two at a time. He pauses outside Steve’s door and listens to Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters singing “Pistol Packin’ Mama”, the soft scratch of the record as it turns on the table of the phonograph Steve found somewhere. Bucky remembers what Steve said about knocking and he almost does so, but in the end takes his lock picks from his inner coat pocket and goes to work on the lock. However, like the first time he did this, he finds the door is unlocked. This time Bucky knows it is no coincidence; Steve left the door unlocked on purpose. It is an invitation, his way of saying, _Come on in_ to Bucky because he can’t _not_ believe that Bucky left for good the last time. Unfortunately, Steve was right about that, Bucky thinks as he opens the door and steps inside.

Steve looks up when Bucky steps into the living room. He jumps the littlest bit then relaxes again. He looks… relieved… Bucky realizes as they stare at each other. Relieved and pensive at the same time, like he thinks Bucky will now turn around and run right back out the door. It is true that he wants to, but he won’t do that, won’t crush the hope in Steve’s eyes even though he is starting to hate that look. He wants to take Steve by the shoulders and say, _I will only let you down. I will_ ruin _you._ The words are right there, burning like ice in his brain, but he can’t spit them out of his useless mouth.

Instead, he holds out his hand to Steve and says, “I brought you something,” just as Steve opens his mouth to speak.

Steve looks at the cupcake then flicks his gaze up to look at Bucky. Then he looks at the cupcake again and takes it from him. “Thanks, Buck,” he says, turning the slightly damaged cupcake in his hand. “It’s swell.”

“Good,” Bucky says. When Steve continues to look at it, one eyebrow half lifted, Bucky tries to think of something else to say. He remembers what Giovinazzo said to him and thinks that’ll do, so he licks his lips and tries it out: “You’re supposed to eat it, Rogers, not admire it.”

“Right, yeah, I know that,” Steve says with a kind of surprised smile. He takes the little plastic Christmas tree off of it then glances at Bucky again. “Just uh… let me pluck this hair off and then I’ll… you know.”

Steve plucks one of Bucky’s dark brown hairs out of the frosting then unwraps the cupcake. He gives it one last look, sighs and pops the whole thing in his mouth. He chews and swallows, smiles at Bucky as he does and all Bucky can think is how he’s got a smudge of pinkish frosting on the corner of his mouth.

“Acceptable?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, it’s great, thanks,” Steve says. He reaches into his mouth and plucks out a little dark something that he flicks aside. “Missed a piece of lint though.” He peers up at Bucky and says, “So, uh, where’d you get that cupcake anyway?”

“My car,” Bucky says.

“Oh, okay.” Steve smiles again and gestures at the couch. “You want to sit down?”

“No,” Bucky says. He wants to leave _right now_ because the snake wrapped around his chest is hissing again, but he will not do that. He didn’t come this far just to keep running away even if he does still completely believe he should. So, he sits down anyway and Steve smiles again, puzzled at the mixed message.

“Are you all right?” Steve asks. “You’re really pale. Are you… Are you getting sick?”

“I do not get sick,” Bucky says. It’s blood loss that’s left him so peaked and he should have thought about that, it’s a major oversight, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. “I had a long day at work.”

“Where you do customer service for charity,” Steve says flatly.

“At a dentist’s office,” Bucky adds. His lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile and something in Steve’s eyes softens when he does.

“You’re never going to tell me, are you?”

“It isn’t relevant,” Bucky says.

“Because I don’t want to know you,” Steve says. “Right. Is it something bad?”

“Define bad,” Bucky says.

“Buck—” Steve rubs his forehead. “Cripes. All right, I’ll… try… to let it go. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Bucky says.

“I have _everything_ to be sorry for,” Steve says.

Bucky startles at the outburst and turns his head to look at Steve. He looks angry and unhappy, so lost and so _young_ that it steals Bucky’s breath.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Bucky says.

“Yes, I did,” Steve says. “Because I didn’t do _anything at all_. I just left you down there and then they took you and look what they did. I know they hurt you, I know they made you do terrible things and I know it had to have been pure hell. And I’m sorry, too, because I’m _not_ as sorry as I should be. Because you’re not dead, you’re sitting right here and you’re the only thing I’ve got and all I’ve ever wanted and— God, what am I doing? I’m so sorry. Again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re sad,” Bucky says simply.

Steve coughs out a humorless laugh and slumps back against the sofa. “So I keep hearing.”

“It’s the truth,” Bucky says.

“I know that, all right? I keep telling myself that I’m not, but I am because sometimes… sometimes I _hate it here_ and I just want to go _home_ ,” Steve says. “But if I had my way then you really would be gone and I’d still be sad.” Steve scrubs at his face. “I’m messed up, Buck. I don’t know when I got like this. I just don’t know.”

“You’re not sad I’m still alive though,” Bucky says because, well, that’s interesting. It means that in some ways, Steve is glad Bucky became the Winter Soldier. “But you don’t like that you’re not sad about it, do you?”

“I don’t like… I don’t know,” Steve says. “I feel guilty for feeling glad that you’re still here because of what you had to go through so you could be sitting here now. I’m _sorry_.”

Bucky nods and processes that while staring at the television. Steve’s breathing is heavy and it hitches every third breath or so. He does not want Steve to be upset, but he doesn’t know how to fix this either. Just like he doesn’t know how to fix anything anymore. In the television, his mother stands in a bread line with Steve’s mother; his sisters are at home with Bucky’s dad because he’s got the flu. It’s why they’re out here this morning instead. The line stretches on for block after block, a crooked line of huddled, starving men, women and children. Behind their mothers stand Steve and Bucky, huddled in their shabby coats, leaning against each other for warmth. Steve is shaking like a leaf in the bitter cold, a dusting of snow in his hair. Bucky wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer, tucking his head beneath his chin as he holds onto Steve to keep him warm as possible. They fell asleep standing in that bread line, right there in the wicked cold and when they woke up it was because their mothers had taken off their own coats to wrap around them. As Bucky’s mother turns and rises, she sees someone she knows and raises her hand in a wave, a little smile curling up her mouth that is so much like Bucky’s own. From where he’s sitting, it looks like she’s waving to the Bucky on Steve’s couch.

He turns away from the ghosts in the television and glances at Steve, skittish and unsure, but knowing he has to do _something_. Steve isn’t weeping, but he looks wretched, just wrung out now that he’s had his outburst. He catches Bucky watching him and glances back, so many questions in his eyes that it’s overwhelming just like that hope, that terrible _hope_ of Steve’s.

 _Say something_ , Bucky tells himself.

“I’m not… mad… at you,” Bucky says. “Because you’re… you’re all… I’ve got, too. I think I understand what you mean. It… you can’t help how you… feel.”

“You should hate me for what I did to you,” Steve says.

Bucky blinks at him, genuinely shocked at that and that’s a novel sensation—shock—but he’ll think about that later.

“You didn’t do anything to me,” Bucky says. “I… I was already… changing. When you found me the first time.”

He had felt it even then though he hadn’t known what it was or what caused it; all he knew was it had something to do with the experiments Zola had been performing on him. He could feel the effects of those experiments in every aspect of himself ever after that; he was faster, stronger, his memory was better. His mind was dull sometimes though; sometimes he’d look at Steve and for a split second he wouldn’t know who he was and it had nothing to do with Steve being bigger and taller. It was like he was just _gone_. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier yet or even necessarily becoming him, that beast was born after Bucky fell from the train, but he was changing and they had been prepping him for just that. He didn’t know it at that time, but he’s certain of it now.

“I should have looked for you though,” Steve says. “If I had looked and found you then they wouldn’t… God, don’t you get it, Bucky? It’s _my fault_ they took you and messed you up.”

“I am irreparably damaged,” Bucky says. “That damage has… nothing to do with you though. You did not… do this to me.”

“But I—”

“No.” Bucky will not hear this any longer because it is so grossly untrue. It is understandable how Steve might feel that way—Steve who always does the right thing, Steve who never wants to let anyone down, Steve who still looks up to Bucky in some small way. Steve who is kind and gentle and all the things Bucky will never be again. Steve who loves him even now, even after Bucky broke his heart the way he did.

Bucky reaches out and takes Steve’s hand in his and tugs him close. This is sense memory; he’s done this so many times with Steve that it’s like a dance they both know by rote. Except now Bucky is using all of his self-control not to tremble and flinch, bracing himself for the pain—both psychic and physical—that is to come. Steve leans against his right side, a little tense, but not at all afraid of Bucky the way most people would be. Steve lays his head on Bucky’s shoulder and the pain is brilliant, lancing through his wounded flesh and wiping his mind clean. An unexpected consequence, but a very welcome one. His shoulder throbs, the pain dull now, but still enough to keep Bucky grounded.

“I forgive you,” Bucky says as he gives Steve a gentle squeeze. It isn’t easy to make the words come, but he can give Steve this. This one time, he will not let him down. “I was never angry… but… if you… need that from me then… you can have it. You can have… all of it, Steve.”

Steve is quiet for a long time and then, voice cracking like ice splitting under pressure, he says, “Oh, God, Bucky.” Steve turns his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck and wraps his arms around him as he begins to weep. It’s like being kids again for a little while, right down to the way Steve’s tears trickle over Bucky’s skin. He’s quiet about it, but his shoulders shake with the force of it, years and years of pent up guilt and sorrow pouring out of him now.

In time, Bucky remembers how to make his arms work the way they used to and he holds Steve back. His shoulder brays with pain at the new angle, but it’s a relief, too. For a little while, Bucky holds Steve and they are content in each others pain because at least they’re together.

When Steve has stopped crying, he sits back with a sniffle and wipes his wet face. “I’m—”

“Don’t,” Bucky says as he uses his gloved fingers to wipe away the rest of the moisture from Steve’s face. Steve closes his eyes and submits to the treatment, calmer now than he’s been in ages. Bucky strokes his thumb over the fan of Steve’s long eyelashes; he always did like them so much.

“Bucky?”

“What?”

“If I kissed you again, would you freak out?”

“Possibly,” Bucky says because there’s no point in lying.

“Was that because of me or…?”

“It wasn’t you,” Bucky says. He considers Steve still sitting there with his eyes closed, breathing a little heavier than usual and clogged after his crying jag. He touches Steve’s cheek and flinches the littlest bit when Steve turns into the touch.

“What is it then?”

“I’m… not…” Bucky bites his tongue, doesn’t know how to say what he wants to Steve. Doesn’t know if he can. “It’s fine.”

“Bucky, come on, you’re not… I mean, you just said a little while ago that you’re—”

“Irreparably damaged, yes,” Bucky says. He doesn’t want to talk about this; hell, he can barely talk as it is and things like discussing feelings makes it even harder. Then there are the ghosts. How could he ever tell Steve about them? He does not think he could.

However, Steve wants to kiss him and Bucky wants to kiss Steve as well. It’s a dangerous undertaking given his breed of instability, but it’s worth the risk because it will derail the conversation Steve is attempting to have because Steve is worried sick about him, that much is obvious.

So, Bucky takes Steve’s face in both hands before he can start his concerned prying again. Bucky kisses him hard, harder than he meant to, but it’s like a shock, the desire that crashes through him hard and relentless. Steve gasps and kisses him back with just as much hunger. They kiss until they can’t breathe and pull apart panting, Steve’s hand clenching hard on Bucky’s right shoulder and he says inside his head, _Thank you. Thank you._ because the pain really is like an anchor. It keeps him from drifting off too far away, out where the bad water runs deep and dangerous.

Steve leans his forehead against his and nuzzles Bucky gently. Kindness is a different type of pain and even with his shoulder bleeding anew—soon it will soak through his suit coat—it’s not quite enough to stop the agony of Steve’s affection. Still, Bucky makes himself hold his stay long enough to kiss Steve’s jaw before pulling away completely.

“I have to go,” Bucky says. His shoulder is a concern, but it’s mostly because that horrible shaking has begun inside of him and there’s laughter filling the air all around them, loud enough that he looks around for the source without thinking about it.

“Bucky, don’t,” Steve says. “If it was the kiss then we don’t have to do that anymore. I don’t want to freak you out.”

“You don’t… freak me out,” Bucky says as he stands up. He looks down at Steve and to prove his point, ducks his head and kisses him again briefly. “I’ll come back. I… I promise.”

“Sooner this time?”

“Yes,” Bucky says after a moment’s hesitation. He wants to stay now, he does, but want is such a dangerous, vile thing for him these days. Maybe with enough time and repetition, he can learn to do it because walking away from Steve hurts almost as much as staying does. “Soon. I’ll see you… soon.”

“Okay,” Steve sounds disappointed, but also mollified after having extracted a promise from Bucky that he’ll return soon.

“Goodnight,” Bucky says as he walks away.

“‘Night, Buck,” Steve calls. “And uh… thanks, ya know, for the cupcake. For… for everything.”

Bucky stops by the door and says, “You’re welcome.”

Then he turns the knob and disappears into the night, leaving Steve all alone yet again.


	10. Chapter 10

_I’d be in your mouth,_   
_in that huger dark:_

_body that stands for soul._

_Word that means you are loved._

— Franz Wright   
“Say My Name”

The day after Bucky kissed him for the second time, Steve calls Tony to tell him to cut the search of video feeds. He should have done it after the first time Bucky showed up, but he didn’t because he didn’t think Bucky would come back. The same reasoning goes for the second time Bucky showed up in his apartment being unintentionally (but really nailing it) creepy. Tony hums in his ear, something that sounds suspiciously like AC/DC, a band that Steve has well and truly learned to loathe. As Tony hums, Steve can practically hear the gears in his head turning as he tries to work out this newest puzzle.

“So what, may I ask, has led you to conclude what I thought was an indefatigable search for Friend Barnes?” Tony asks because far be it from him to just ask, _Why?_

“I don’t see the point anymore,” Steve says. It works and is believable because it isn’t a lie. Steve is still a terrible liar, but he’s learning how to get away with half-truths and lies dressed up with honesty.

“Hmm… I see,” Tony says. “So. That’s the saddest shit I’ve ever heard. Are you sure you want to quit?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Here it comes, more truth that when delivered in this context is also a palatable lie: “I don’t think I’m going to find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“Are you sure he can be found?” Tony makes a sharp sound in the back of his throat. “That didn’t come out right. _That_ sounded like he’s buried in a shallow grave somewhere or— Okay, that didn’t come out right either. What I’m _trying_ to say—and I’m going to do it this time, I swear—is: Do you think he might already be back in a deep freezer somewhere?”

Steve knows it isn’t true, but the way Tony says it still makes his stomach clench with apprehension. “No,” Steve says. “I don’t know what I think other than what I told you.” And _ha-ha!_ , ladies and gents there’s another lie wrapped in a smooth candy coating of truth. Steve’s actually starting to scare himself with how good at this he’s getting.

“Uh-huh,” Tony says. “I can smell your despair all the way in New York. It smells like… something despair-ish. _Eau de_ despair? No, that’s not a thing. Oh! I’ve got it! It smells like pancakes left out on the counter all day, all alone because no one wanted to eat them. They were _irregular_ pancakes.”

“Just how whacky in the head are you, Stark?” Steve asks because _really_. Tony has only gotten weirder since all the crap with Loki. _Progressively_ weirder. Maybe Tony is the one that needs hug therapy, but isn’t that what he has Pepper for? Because Pepper gives great hugs.

“Oh, I’m a lunatic, I tell you,” Tony says. “Stark raving mad. Climbing the walls. A real crackpot. A bona fide fuck-nut destined for a rubber room. Nuttier than squirrel shit, you might say. But I’m also handsome, brilliant and I have more money than God. So, I’m actually only eccentric, which is perfectly acceptable in all realms of society. It balances out.”

Steve grimaces at the mental picture of squirrel feces. He thinks of that old coffee brand, Chock Full O’ Nuts. Then he grimaces again.

“That’s… okay,” Steve says. He’s losing patience with Tony as usual and at the same time, he’s feeling a touch leery of him. Tony has always been manic though. “Are you going to stop the search? There’s no point in you wasting resources on something you’re not going to find.”

Tony is (blessedly) silent for a moment then he says, “Sure, I’ll do it, but I want something in return.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“A Christmas card,” Tony says. “A big one and not some cheap American Greetings card. Oh no, I want a genuine Hallmark card. With a snowman and… and glitter. Lots of glitter. Think you can handle that, Capsicle?”

Steve grits his teeth and lets out a slow, easy breath through his nose. Tony loves goading people and goading Steve is more fun than most people because if he pokes _just so_ he’s guaranteed to get a rise out of him. Clint, on the other hand, Tony doesn’t bother with anymore because Clint just stares at him and one time, he took a knife out of his boot and started cleaning his nails with it. All while still staring Tony down. Clint is, in some ways, much cooler than Steve. Probably a lot of ways, actually.

There is also the fact that even with Tony’s goading (which Steve sometimes thinks isn’t even always intentional) he’s just asked for something very minor in return for the months of scanning CCTV feeds mostly in Europe and South America, but it was still a lot even with an automated program running. By Tony asking for something so minor, he’s not really asking for anything at all. It’s his way of saying he doesn’t mind doing it, but if Steve wants him to stop then he will. Because he is Tony Stark, however, there still has to be a bit of a production with a flourish at the end.

“Yes, I’ll send you a big, sparkly snowman Hallmark card,” Steve says. “I think I can dodder my way through a stationery store or wherever you buy those and get one.”

“You can purchase one by doddering right into a Hallmark store,” Tony says. “Those things are everywhere and hella overpriced, but they always smell lovely.”

“Sure, okay, I’ll go to a Hallmark store as soon as I find one,” Steve says.

“I’m texting you the location of the one nearest you right… now. Done,” Tony says.

A second later, Steve’s phone dings.

“Remember, lots of glitter,” Tony says. “And hey, look… ah… I really am sorry about your buddy. I think he’s kind of a _fucking asshole_ for understandable reasons that we will never, ever discuss. But I’m still… yeah. Sorry. It sucks. Try not to feel too damn bad about it. And that’s enough of that. Merry Christmas!”

With that, Tony hangs up on him and Steve ends the call on his side with a sigh of relief. Just listening to Tony makes him feel tired, but he feels tired a lot of the time lately anyway. He shouldn’t still be depressed because he got what he wanted. He still is though because with every step forward there are two dozen back; Bucky seems to get farther away from him each time he comes by. The way he listens to silence like there’s someone whispering in his ear, his eyes moving constantly, always tracking something that Steve can’t see and is afraid to ask about. The fact that Bucky has money because he has nice clothes and a car now. While Steve has not seen his car, he bets it’s a nice one, too. He bets it is black with tinted windows and something about is dangerous, like a crouching panther in some moonlit jungle. Whatever it is Bucky is doing for money is not good (and Steve damn sure knows it’s not charity work, customer service or now, dental care) but he doesn’t know what it is.

There are only a few things Bucky would be any good at the way he is now and every last one of them is something illegal and most likely violent. Steve knows there’s something as off with whatever Bucky’s doing for work just as there is something off with everything else about Bucky. He knows because he could smell blood on him the last night he was here, sharp and fresh. It was only a faint tickle in Steve’s clogged up nose, but the smell of blood is unmistakable and unforgettable once you’ve smelled enough of it. He’d been too busy crying his heart out to think about it much at the time; it registered only after the fact, after Steve was stewing in shame over having broken down that way in the first place.

Steve still cannot believe he did that, in fact; the embarrassment over crying like a little girl with a skinned knee is a low roil in his belly that hasn’t really let up. He used to cry a good bit when he was a very small child, especially after he started school. He couldn’t understand _why_ the other kids were so mean to him; he had never wronged them and he certainly hadn’t been mean _to them_. That hadn’t stopped them from pushing him down and calling him a dweeb, a runt, an ugly mama’s boy. Some of the bolder ones had hissed, _Short shit,_ at him, filthy mouths already at six and seven. After he had an asthma attack during story time one day, the cutest girl in class had leaned over and whispered in his ear, _You’re icky and I hope you die._

He’d sit in his mother’s lap and just bawl after school while she iced his black eye or split lip or tended his skinned knees and abraded palms. All the talks in the world with teachers and the principal hadn’t helped. The only thing that had ever helped was Bucky; he’d stand between the mean kids and Steve and take the punches for him. He’d done it ever since he saved Steve’s red ball in the park one day. Steve had asked if he wanted to play catch, a little twitchy, a little hesitant, but so hopeful that finally maybe someone would say yes. Bucky had smiled and said, _Sure,_ which wasn’t yes, but it was the same thing and that was all Steve had needed. Steve gave him that red ball as a big, bouncy thank you and they’d played with it for the rest of the summer until Bucky accidentally kicked it in the river. How they had mourned that silly red ball, but it had been their talisman, their version of friendship bracelets.

Steve got older though and he got tougher—in some ways, he will even admit that he got a little meaner because he _had_ to. Even after he was a grown man people would still call him Little Stevie Pee Pants and laugh and laugh. Though the sting of that never left, Steve learned to swallow the pain down and hide it away, which made the tears stop by the time he was in fifth grade. By the time he was a teenager, he was still tiny, but he was also angry and that anger got him through a lot of the time when nothing else in the world except Bucky did.

“Okay, enough of that,” Steve says to himself as he gets up from the sofa.

He thinks he should call Sam, he really needs to do that. He wants to tell Sam about Bucky because if anyone in all of this absolutely does deserve to know _and_ can be trusted not to do something rash (and stupid) like try to _kill_ Bucky, then it is Sam. But Steve doesn’t want to. He’s been withdrawing more and more all the time, he can feel himself doing it, but he can’t stop it from happening. It’s a horrible, sinking, helpless feeling, but it just seems like so much _work_ to return Sam’s phone calls or answer the door when he knocks. Steve hasn’t gone running with him in over a week.

He’s stressed out on top of being depressed and the stress (like the depression) is because of Bucky. He’s like a disease Steve cannot cure and he keeps hearing Bucky say, _You don’t want to know me,_ and that’s not true. Steve wants to know everything, but Bucky tells him nothing and _there is something wrong_ with Bucky. Badly wrong. Bucky is sick, messed up in a way that Steve is not and he wants to help. Bucky keeps him at arm’s length though and too many questions sends Bucky running, so he can’t even ask and… and… _What is he supposed to do?_

Steve can take a damn nap, that’s what. It’s what old people and depressed people and angsty teens the world over do. They sleep because sleep is an escape your brain makes for you; happy-making chemical levels drop and your brain calls a timeout. It throws up a sign and says, _Halt, Citizen! Enough of this dingy melodrama! Off to bed with you!_ It’s brilliant, really (even if it is really bad and Steve knows it). Knowing it does not stop him from climbing into bed, pulling the covers over his head and letting the darkness take him for a few hours.

He sleeps with the door unlocked and the hall light on all the time now. He thinks, _Just come home. Just_ stay, _Bucky_. He thinks, _Stop leaving me._ There have been times the last few months where Steve thought he could sleep the rest of the world away; close his eyes and let it all pass right on by him until the end of all days, but he can’t do that because of Bucky. Bucky is worth an eternity of sleeplessness.

When he wakes up again a few hours later, it’s dark outside and he’s still alone. Steve makes himself get out of bed and fix something to eat. Then he plugs up the lights on his little tree and that makes him smile. Something about the lights makes him decide that no matter what, he _will_ call Sam tomorrow. Since Steve has never once broken a promise to himself, he knows he will keep this one, too. Something about that makes him feel a little better, enough like getting up and grabbing his sketchpad to draw while he waits for someone who may never show up.

A little while later, he glances out his window and sees the blinds across the way are open tonight. The neighbor is in. Steve entertains himself for a little while after that with more wondering about who the person is, what they’re like, if they have any hobbies. He tries to imagine them and flips to a fresh page in his sketchpad. He ends up drawing a lonely werewolf sitting in a rocking chair, eyes blind black holes in its face, tongue lolling, not with hunger but abject sadness. Steve puts his sketchbook away after that because that was just too weird.

By sunrise, he’s in bed again and still alone. Seems like that’s the story of his life. The rustle of the covers as they fall over his head is soothing.

When he wakes up the next day around noon, Steve eats a (very) late breakfast and tries to admonish himself for sleeping so long. It doesn’t really work, but after he’s done the dishes and made his bed, he keeps his promise and calls Sam.

Sam picks up after the second ring and says, “Where have you been?”

“There’s been a lot going on lately,” Steve says. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you back.”

“What’s up?” Sam asks. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Can we meet up later? If you’re busy then—”

“Nope, we can meet up,” Sam says. “I’ve got a little work to do, but I’ll be done by two or two thirty. How about we meet up around… say… Four o’clock? Where you wanna meet at?”

“That works,” Steve says. “I’ll come by your place, if that’s all right with you. I need to return your movie anyway.”

“I’m good with that,” Sam says. “We can order Chinese and catch up.”

Steve knows what Sam is doing, making everything nice and comfortable; setting up for the long haul. Because it’s Sam and Sam is amazingly good at what he does, he figured out months ago that Steve is not doing so well. His behavior has only gotten more telling and now Sam likely thinks Steve might be ready to talk. Sam is right about that because Steve needs to talk.

“I’ll be there,” Steve says.

“Catch you later then,” Sam says.

Steve hangs up and then sits on the couch; Captain Couch Potato to the non-rescue. For a change he doesn’t think about much and what he does think about isn’t too terrible. He’s nervous about talking to Sam, hoping he’s read him right and that when he tells him about Bucky that Sam won’t suggest they put him down like some kind of maneater or lock him away where he’ll never see daylight again. He takes comfort in feeling like he’s not wrong, his same old (albeit so, so tired these days) optimism assures him this is the truth.

He leaves a little before four o’clock to make it to Sam’s place on time because Steve hates being late. Sam lets him in and they adjourn to the table where Chinese takeout awaits them. Steve’s appetite has not diminished with his depression and he tucks right in, mind already made up to leave Sam money for the food before he leaves. Sam waved him off when he offered, but feeding Steve is like buying feed for a Clydesdale—it gets really expensive really quickly.

“So, have you heard anything from Stark about Bucky?” Sam asks him after egg rolls and wonton soup have been consumed.

“No,” Steve says. “That’s one of the things I need to talk to you about.”

Sam raises an eyebrow and waits for Steve to go on.

“I told Stark to cut the search,” Steve says. “There’s no point in it.”

Sam chokes on a bite of sweet and sour shrimp and wipes his mouth before saying, “You’re _giving up_? That… Steve. This isn’t like you.”

“I’m not giving up,” Steve says. “I found him. Actually, he found me.”

“ _What?_ ” Sam holds his hands up in a _whoa there_ gesture. “Okay, okay. Walk me through this from the beginning.”

Steve fidgets a little and eats a snow pea pod while he gathers his thoughts. Sam waits him out, not eating any longer, only patiently watching Steve muster up. After a few more bites of food and draining half his beer in one go, Steve feels ready to begin. He starts with the night Bucky showed up in his apartment and carefully works his way through things, sidestepping everything to do with wearing the Winter Soldier’s mask and going around fighting crime illegally. He does not tell Sam that he cried all over Bucky or that he’s kissed him two times now. Those things are private and not relevant. He ends with the night Bucky brought him the smashed cupcake.

“He sounds… odd,” Sam finally says, dark brows drawn down in a concerned frown. 

“He is,” Steve says. “There’s something wrong with him.”

“Steve, there is a _lot_ wrong with him,” Sam says. “I’ve only met the guy in passing and he tried to kill me every time. And he did kill my car. I mean, wow, that car is so dead. He just… the _steering wheel_ , man. I still can’t get over that shit.”

“He’s not like that now,” Steve says. “It’s different. I think he hears things. Sees things, too.”

“Like he’s hallucinating?” Sam asks. Steve nods and Sam nods back. “So, you have a trained assassin who is possibly exhibiting signs of schizophrenia coming into your apartment late at night. That sounds safe.”

“Basically,” Steve says. When Sam puts it that way it makes things sound way worse than they really are. “It’s not that bad though. He’s not going to _hurt me_. He brought me a cupcake. I mean, it was a messed up cupcake, but people who intend to kill you don’t bring you snacks beforehand.”

“Steve, there is a strange man walking into your home whenever he feels like it and bringing you Cupcakes of Dubious Origins,” Sam says. “It’s messed up even if he doesn’t pose a threat to you.”

“He’s not a _stranger_ , Sam,” Steve says, growing frustrated.

“No, but he is _strange_ ,” Sam says. “Very strange.”

“I shouldn’t have told you any of this.” Steve scrubs at his face and looks away from Sam.

“Why not?” Sam asks. “Your friend needs help and you recognize that. Talking to me about it is a good place to start.”

Steve looks at Sam for that, a little spark of hope kindling back to life inside of him. “You genuinely mean that? You’re not just saying that to me when you really think he needs to be killed or locked away? Because before, you said—”

“I know what I said then,” Sam says. “But that’s the thing—that was then and this is now. Things change.” He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, elbows propped on the edge of the table. “You say he has money now. That seems like it bothers you and I get why it would because hell, where would he get money, right? Have you asked him what he does?”

Steve grimaces and shakes his head. “He says he works in customer service for charity at a dentist’s office. Or something like that.”

“Translation: he’s full of shit,” Sam says.

“Very,” Steve agrees. “He won’t answer any of my questions. He leaves if I ask too many, but he’s extra cagey about the job thing.”

“You know what that means,” Sam says.

“That what he’s doing is probably illegal,” Steve says. “But look, I don’t see Bucky being a drug dealer or bank robber.” Steve hasn’t read his papers recently though and looks at Sam with a little wince. “There haven’t been any bank robberies lately, have there?”

Sam laughs and that’s a relief. “No, no bank robberies,” Sam says.

“Thank goodness,” Steve says with an answering smile. Then he sobers again. “What do I do, Sam? You should see him. Outwardly, he’s so calm, so _still_ that it’s eerie, but his eyes are always moving. He looks around like he’s _watching_ something, following movements. Then sometimes he cocks his head like he’s straining to hear something far off. But he almost never makes eye contact with me and when he does, it doesn’t last long. His eyes are so… so… I see Bucky in there— _my Bucky_ —but I see the soldier, too. And there’s this… it’s hard to explain, but it’s—”

“Madness?” Sam suggests.

Steve sighs and looks down at his plate. He picks up a piece of carrot with his fingers and puts in his mouth. He’s heard of stress eating and wonders if this qualifies. It probably does.

“Yeah,” Steve says at last. “Maybe.”

“Probably,” Sam says. “He’s got to have tremendous self-control not to be a complete wreck right now and in a way, that’s good, because if a guy like that does go _kaboom_ then the fallout would be massive. But it sounds like he’s suffering, too, living through hell every minute of every single day and that makes sense. I haven’t read that file you’ve got, but you’ve talked to me about it and I can’t see how it could have gone any other way.”

What Steve hears in Sam’s voice isn’t judgment, it’s sympathy. No, it’s more than that, it’s _empathy_.

“I wanted to believe that he might be okay,” Steve says. “It was stupid for me to think that, but after Project Insight I wanted him to be fine so badly I convinced myself that wherever he was and whatever he was doing he would be all right. Not right away, I didn’t believe that much, but I thought that _eventually_ he would be.”

“How could he ever be fine?” Sam asks. “I know that’s a tough thing to consider, but I want you to do it anyway. Put yourself in his shoes and think about that for a minute.”

“I don’t need to,” Steve says. “It’s all I’ve done since I saw him again. I was a fool.”

“No, you’re not a fool,” Sam says. “You just wanted the best for him and so, you believed that. It’s what anyone would do in your situation if they cared about somebody.”

“And now?” Steve asks.

“Now it’s up to him,” Sam says. “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. All you can do is be there for him.”

“I would be if he’d _let_ me,” Steve says. He feels that old familiar sense of desperation rising up inside of him and forces it back down. “He told me that I don’t want to know him. I think that’s one of the reasons why he doesn’t come around much and why he won’t answer my questions. He said he is irreparably damaged, which means he _knows_ he’s messed up, but it’s like he’s trying to—”

“Protect you,” Sam says.

Steve scowls at that and wonders how in the world Sam is so good at this stuff. Maybe because he has experience and nothing more, but Steve thinks it’s also just because Sam is a good guy—a good guy who is really observant. Still.

“I hate when you finish my sentences,” Steve says with a soft chuff of laughter. “But yeah, okay, I think that is it. I think he’s trying to do what he’s always done and protect me. Only now I think he thinks he’s protecting me from himself. All I can think is that it must be really bad, worse than what I see when he’s around, if he feels that way.”

“Steve, look,” Sam says. Then he stops and sighs as Steve occupies himself with stuffing more food in his mouth. It really is a good thing he’s pretty much incapable of getting fat. Sam starts again, “It’s like this: the truth of the matter is that it most definitely is worse than what you see. It doesn’t sound like he really shows you _anything_ , not willingly. What you see are only the little things—the tics, the subconscious behaviors—that he cannot hide. What lies beneath that is probably a million times more terrible. I’ve seen soldiers with severe PTSD and that’s bad, but what he’s most likely got I doubt there is even a term for.”

Steve hangs his head and looks at his food, but this time his stomach lurches and he’s no longer hungry. Just like that. He thinks about Philip again, hears him say, _The only real monsters are the ones in our minds._ How many monsters live inside of Bucky’s mind now, tearing him up like he’s a paper doll?

“I wish he’d stop trying to protect me from _everything_. I could help him, I could, but he won’t let me in.”

“Then you have got to convince him to do that,” Sam says. “It won’t be easy, I don’t figure, but he might surprise you, too. The absolute best thing you can do for him right now though is just be his friend. I know that doesn’t sound like it’s proactive enough, but it is the best thing for anyone—having someone who gives enough of damn to _be there_. And I know you—you are that guy and you do give enough of a damn. He is, after all, _your_ Bucky, huh?”

Steve narrows his eyes at that, but Sam only smiles. Steve knows without him saying a word that Sam _knows_. Not everything—definitely not anything concrete—but he knows Steve. Though Steve does not broadcast it, it’s hard to completely hide the fact that he loves Bucky. It’s never been easy because it’s _right there_ in the back of his mind all the time, this feeling that won’t dull down or let up or leave him alone.

“Yeah, he is,” Steve says, sucking it up and then spitting it out in a way that’s still not broadcasting, but is a confession all the same. “He’s _my_ Bucky.”

Sam nods and leans back in his chair, eyeing Steve carefully as he says, “Are you _his_ Steve though? That’s the question.”

“I am.” It’s said with no hesitation because Steve doesn’t need to think about it for even a second. He’s never had to think about it, not even after Bucky ripped both of their hearts because of _why_ he did it. It was the most terrible moment of Steve’s life, but sometimes love hurts and their love back then could have gotten them killed. Steve hadn’t cared one bit, but Bucky had—and not about himself, he’d cared about Steve getting hurt or worse. It’s one thing to break someone’s heart for your own safety, but to break your own in the name of someone else’s welfare is a different beast entirely. Bucky had done that to himself _for Steve_.

“All right then,” Sam says while Steve stews in reveries of the past. “Then go from there. If—when—the time comes and he wants to talk to someone else about these things, my door is open. Or well, okay, we can meet up somewhere because I don’t feel comfortable with him knowing where I live. I don’t want to come home one day and find him waiting for me with pastries. Or be driving home and lose another steering wheel.”

“Or come out of the grocery store and find him sitting in your backseat,” Steve says, finally cracking a smile.

“No, that would be bad,” Sam says with a nod and a laugh of his own. “I’ll help though if I can. If you think he’s worth it then I believe you, but remember: you have to be patient with him. More patient with him probably than with most people because he’s so closed off and hellbent on keeping you safe from whatever it is he’s dreamed up in that fucked up head of his.”

“Nightmares,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “It must be a jungle in there.”

Steve nods and they lapse into silence, all that needed to be said having been said. Eventually, Steve’s appetite comes back online and he eats some more. Sam joins him after another minute and they go through their super-early supper together. When they’re through eating, they talk about other things; bumping their gums about nothing in particular until Steve says he should be going. Sam walks him to the door and bids him goodnight and Steve walks to his car. He waits until he thinks Sam is gone back into the main part of the house then sneaks back up the walk and slips forty dollars through the mail slot for the food. Then he goes home, hoping maybe he’ll find Bucky waiting for him again.

He doesn’t.

By the third night, Steve is pacing around his living room like a caged animal. He can’t take this. He just can’t _take it_ , so around midnight, he goes into his bedroom, changes into black, takes the mask from his closet and leaves because he has to do something. Waiting is killing him, it actually feels like a dull knife sawing away at his insides because he’s starting to think maybe Bucky lied to him just so he could get away. He doesn’t want to think about that, but he can’t stop doing it anyway. Which means he needs to occupy himself.

Steve prowls around in the shadows of Southeast most of the night. He stops a carjacking, interrupts two drug deals, stops a pimp from slapping his hooker—though this hooker is none too happy with Steve and calls him a shit for brains pig-fucking asshole. He rescues a stray dog from a dumpster and feels sick with that because he knows the dog didn’t get in there on its own. It licks his face all over, tail whipping madly from side to side and Steve is really considering bringing it home with him, but then the dog runs away, tail curved like a sickle over the bony ridge of its back. Steve whistles for it, but the dog doesn’t pay any attention. That idea canned, Steve goes back to what he was doing, but the night is slowly dying all around him and it’s freezing cold outside. It started to snow about an hour ago and fresh powder covers up the dirty sidewalks like a coat of new paint. It’s a rare kind of quiet that only comes in winter and Steve just walks, one ear open for the sound of anyone in distress or more homeless pets tossed into dumpsters, but mostly he just listens to and enjoys the sound of silence.

Then a few blocks later, someone behind him exclaims, “I’ll be goddamned!”

Steve jumps and whirls around at the sound of the voice and finds Diamond leaning against a wall outside the mouth of an alley. A man is scurrying away in the opposite direction and Steve doesn’t have to think too hard about what was going on a moment before. It makes him uncomfortable to imagine it, but Diamond smiles at him and laughs.

“Mr. Mysterious,” she says, sashaying up to him in spike-heeled, thigh-high boots. “Where you been at?”

“Ah… around,” Steve says. “You know.”

“Nuh-uh, I don’t know shit about you except for that last Boy Scout thing you got,” Diamond says, wagging a finger at him. Her nails are painted holly green in celebration of the season and her wig tonight has shiny silver strands in it, like tinsel. She’s one festive hooker, Steve thinks, then immediately feels bad about it. “That’s why you’re Mr. Mysterious. You down here saving more damsels in distress?”

“Sorta,” Steve says. “I did help one, but she was mad about it and called me names.”

“Some bitches be like that,” Diamond says with a nod. “Ones who’re too young or stupid to know any better.”

“How are you?” Steve asks.

“My pussy is a little sore, but you get used to that,” Diamond says. “This one hotshot motherfucker fucked me like he was trying to plow through me, but it’s all good. Diamonds are tough, you know.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Steve says, aghast at her language and the way she’s so _casual_ about it. “That’s… that’s… _oh, God_.”

Diamond shakes her head and frowns at him, studying him with sharp, dark eyes. “You are too damn nice for your own good. Why you even care?”

“Because that’s… that’s… I don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s the job, that’s what it is,” Diamond says. “You trip me out, you know. You go around fighting crime like a legitimately badass motherfucker, but one little mention of a bruised pussy and you look like you wanna cry even with that mask on.”

“Please, _please_ stop saying that about bruised… you-know-whats,” Steve says.

“Pussies?” she asks and Steve answers with a _gah!_ sound. Diamond laughs so hard her shoulders shake and her big gold earrings like hoops inside of hoops inside of hoops jangle merrily.

“You too much, Mr. Mysterious,” she says while Steve shifts awkwardly on his feet and thinks about how awful it really is. “Hey.” Diamond lightly taps his shoulder.

“Huh?” Steve asks, focusing on her grinning, young-old face. She looks younger when she smiles, not nearly so worn down or almost-used-up as she does otherwise.

“You wanna walk a tired bitch home?”

“No,” Steve says. She scowls and takes a little step back. Behind his mask he smiles as he offers her his arm. “But I’d be glad to walk a tired _lady_ home.”

“Damn,” Diamond says as she takes his arm. “You keep this up and you gonna have yourself a Julia Roberts kinda fucking situation.”

“I understand that reference,” Steve says happily. “ _Pretty Woman_.”

“Well… that’s nice,” Diamond says, patting his arm where her hand rests on it. “You wanna walk me up to my castle door when we get there?”

“Are there freebies involved?” Steve asks warily.

Diamond cuts her eyes to the side, one eyebrow raised and a sly smile curving her lips. “You want there to be?”

“No,” Steve says. “ _No._ I really don’t, it’s nice of you to offer and all, but you could you stop doing that? Plus, you’re… uh… injured with… um… that thing that’s an injury.”

“Baby doll, I do like you,” Diamond says with a soft laugh, leaning her cheek against Steve’s arm as they walk. “Then come up and talk to me for a while then. How ‘bout that?”

“I can do that,” Steve says. “I’d really like to do that. You’re nice to talk to.”

“Damn straight, I am,” she says.

Steve laughs and they walk back to Diamond’s apartment arm-in-arm. She is the most unlikely of friends, but Steve hasn’t met anyone he likes this much since he met Sam. Diamond leads a high-risk life and she’s not at all what people would call respectable, but Steve likes the hell out of her regardless. Her manner of speaking leaves something to be desired, but he is getting used to such things the littlest, tiniest bit.

They sit in Diamond’s apartment where she changes into fuzzy flannel pajamas and drinks cheap vodka (she calls it “welfare vodka”) straight from the bottle. She sits in a chair next to the sofa after she gets an icepack, which she places _down there_. Steve does not look again after he sees where she puts it. It makes Diamond laugh, but eventually they lapse into conversation, easy as if they’ve known each other forever. Diamond tries to get him to take off the mask and Steve refuses, but thinks if they keep hanging out together one day he will take it off. He is starting to really believe that he can trust Diamond and that is _so nice_ because there aren’t many people he can trust anymore. She smokes a lot and Steve genuinely enjoys being wreathed in her cloud of secondhand smoke. It’s the nostalgia thing. The sense memory. The fact that it’s not going to kill him any-damn-way.

“You seem sad,” Diamond says after she’s finished around half the fifth of vodka.

Steve snorts. “Because I am. I’m starting to think I’m crap at hiding it, too.”

“You are,” Diamond says. “Is it the holidays got you down? Or wait. It ain’t ‘cause of that stupid trick earlier calling you names or whatever? You tell me what she looks like and _I’ll_ kick her dumb ass.”

“Ah, no, no,” Steve says. “It’s neither of those things. The holidays have actually cheered me up a little this year.”

“Then what’s the matter, baby?”

“I have a friend—”

“And by friend, you mean _yourself_ , right?”

“No, honest,” Steve says. “It’s really another person. His name is… not important. But he’s my friend and he’s in a bad way and I can’t help him. So I feel useless. There are other things, too, have been for a while, but that’s a big one.”

“What kind of friend is this?” Diamond asks. “A hang out and scratch yourselves kinda friend or fuck each others brains out kinda friend?”

“Neither,” Steve says. “But… but more of the last, I guess. Although it only happened once and that was years ago. It’s just that I wouldn’t mind if… you know.”

“So. Mr. Mysterious likes dick,” Diamond says. “ _Damn_. That explains a lot though and I don’t care, just I’m kinda sad about it. I can’t see your face, but you got pretty eyes, a damn sexy voice and then there’s that _body_. I’d let you bruise my—”

“Diamond, please,” Steve says, already preparing to cover his ears.

“All right, all right,” Diamond says with a laugh. “All I’m sayin’ is that I’d fuck you for free any day of the week. Shit, you can leave the mask on ‘cause I don’t even care. I just want to see what’s under them clothes. It’s cool though, I can live without one more dick poking around in my… life.” She clears her throat with a little smile at Steve’s relieved sigh. “Anyway. You got man troubles. That’s it, huh?”

“So many troubles,” Steve says miserably. “I love him,” he admits, saying aloud to Diamond what he didn’t (maybe couldn’t) say to Sam.

“That’s bad, honey,” she says. “Love’ll make a damn train wreck out of you if you let it. He worth it?”

“He always has been,” Steve says. “He always will be.”

Diamond nods to herself and sucks the back of her teeth. “You already a train wreck then,” she says. “Sorry to break it to you, Mr. Mysterious, but you are one doomed motherfucker.”

“I hate trains,” is all Steve has to say to that.

“Yeah, them trains can all go to hell. Fuckin’ trains,” Diamond declares as she raises her bottle for another swallow.

Steve surprises himself by laughing until his belly hurts.

“Crazy thang,” Diamond mutters, smiling to herself while Steve laughs. “My big damn crazy masked hero.”

“I am so, so crazy,” Steve agrees. “I keep telling people that, but no one believes me.”

“Well, Diamond believes you,” she says, leaning over to pat his arm reassuringly. “Rest easy now.”

Steve laughs again then glances out the window. The sun is only an hour or so away from rising and he needs to go, but he’s been having a nice time and is silently amazed by how much Diamond has drank without actually seeming _drunk_. She has a very high tolerance, which means she probably drinks a whole lot and that’s sad, but Steve gets why. And like smokers, drinkers don’t bother him in the least. After Prohibition there’d been _more_ alcoholics in Brooklyn. They were just something you got used to.

“I should go,” Steve says. He gestures at the window, toward the barely lightening sky. “It’s getting early.”

“All right,” Diamond says easily. She lays her icepack aside when Steve stands up so she can get up as well. She pushes up on her tiptoes, much shorter now that she’s not wearing spike-heeled boots, and kisses his mask-covered cheek. “Goodnight and merry Christmas, Mr. Mysterious.”

Steve pulls her into a big hug and says, “Same to you, Diamond.”

He lets her go after a moment and doesn’t say anything to her about grabbing his butt; coming from her it’s actually a little amusing. He leaves, feeling better like he did the first time he met Diamond. He walks out into the frigid cold, boots leaving tracks in the snow. Overhead, the sky is cloudy, but not completely covered. It’s supposed to snow again later though, but for now all is calm, all is quiet. He takes the mask off and puts it back in his coat.

Steve’s about six blocks from Diamond’s apartment when a shadow covers him. He registers that and is already preparing to look around when someone falls into step beside him.

“Hello,” Bucky says.

Steve stops and Bucky stops, too, still looking straight ahead while Steve stares at him.

“Where have you been?”

“Behind you,” Bucky says. “You said you weren’t going to wear that mask any longer.”

“And _you_ said you would come back,” Steve says.

“I did,” Bucky says.

“It’s been three days,” Steve says.

“Which is much sooner than my other visits,” Bucky says.

“You followed me all night and didn’t think to say anything to me?” Steve snaps.

“No,” Bucky says with a little frown, like it really did not occur to him. Steve thinks that’s true, too, and that’s rub of the whole thing. Bucky isn’t right in the head. If nothing else makes it obvious, _this_ kind of crap does.

“You have to stop following me,” Steve says.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not _normal_ , Bucky,” Steve says.

“I… am not… normal,” Bucky says. His little frown deepens and Steve hears the very soft _tap-tap-tap, tap-tap…_ of his fingers against his thigh.

Steve sighs and rolls his head to pop his neck. “I know, Bucky. It’s okay,” Steve says. He’s only confusing Bucky, he’s sure; he did tell him not too long ago that it was okay if Bucky stalked him because it’s _Bucky_. It is all right, too, because Bucky means him no harm, no ill-will, but things are starting to change. They’ve changed quicker than Steve could have anticipated and now that he knows there’s every chance Bucky is right behind him, it’s still too far away.

“Your reaction suggests otherwise,” Bucky says.

“I just miss you is all,” Steve says. He starts walking again and Bucky falls back into step beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a while.

“Stop _leaving me_ ,” Steve says through gritted teeth, the words forcing their way out though he tries to stop them. “You’re _always_ leaving and all I want is for you to _stay_.”

“I…” Bucky trails off with a soft sound in the back of his throat, mouth working, but no words coming out.

He turns his head to look at something. There’s a car parked at the curb, but Steve would bet that’s not what Bucky is seeing. Then Bucky stops and when Steve looks at him, he sees Bucky is offering him his arm this time. It’s a strange twist of déjà vu, but Steve feels a warm tightening in his gut as he looks at Bucky’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks.

Bucky lets out a slightly shaking breath and meets his eyes for a split second before his gaze skitters away again.

“Staying,” he says. “For… you.” He licks his lips and huffs softly. “For you, I will stay.”

Steve smiles at him and there it is again, that spark of hope, but now it flares even brighter. He takes Bucky’s arm and they walk back to Steve’s apartment together like that. Together like they never got to be when they were young. They go upstairs and sit on the couch for a little while. Bucky doesn’t say anything and Steve doesn’t force the issue, only watches Bucky track phantoms around the living room and takes mental notes on what all of that could mean. It’s only when he dozes off on the couch that Steve rouses himself enough to announce that he needs to go to bed. Bucky gets up to leave, but Steve stops him with a light touch on his arm.

“Lay down with me,” he says. It’s not an invitation for anything more than plain old sleep; Steve doesn’t know if either of them are ready for more than that. He can’t speak for Bucky, but given his own limited experience (what with Bucky being _it_ for over seventy years) Steve doesn’t even know how to initiate such a thing. Besides, he doesn’t really want it—he would not turn it down, but more than sex he only wants to sleep beside Bucky for a little while so he can know how that feels.

Bucky nods and sits back down while Steve goes to change for bed. He dresses in his pajamas quickly, listening for the soft _snick_ of the door shutting despite Bucky’s little nod. When he walks out of the bathroom, he expects Bucky to be gone, but he’s sitting on the foot of Steve’s bed, still as a statue, staring at the chest of drawers. Steve doesn’t say anything to him about it, but the relief he feels is like a weight lifting off his chest. He climbs into bed and lies there, waiting to see what will happen next. After a minute, Bucky walks to the other side of the bed and lies down beside him on top of the covers. He’s still dressed and stiff as a board, but after Steve turns off the lamp, he relaxes little by little. It’s not total relaxation and even lying in the dark, Steve knows he isn’t asleep, but he’s right next to him, which means he’s _trying_ and that’s a start.

“Thank you,” Steve says.

“Thank you,” Bucky says back a moment later.

On Christmas Eve, Steve wakes up to find Bucky gone, the covers still warm from his body. Unlike that bleak January morning so long ago, Steve isn’t torn up by Bucky’s absence. He’s buoyed by the fact he stayed. In this day and age—in this time—that spells progress, not loss.


	11. Chapter 11

_My applejack,_   
_my silent night, just mash your lips against me._   
_We are all going forward. None of us are going back._

— Richard Siken   
“Snow and Dirty Rain”

Christmas Eve night Bucky is standing in the VIP room on the top floor of Ballyhoo against the railing of the balcony. He looks down at the dance floor, feels the throb of bass from techno music throbbing in his teeth. The writhe and roll of bodies so far below him like dark waves undulating in the white lightning flash of strobe lights. Ghosts pop in and out of the crowd like guests at a surprise party, much more well defined than the anonymous crush of real people. His mother laughs, his oldest sister throws up after drinking too much at a speakeasy Bucky took her to for her eighteenth birthday. Nazis lurk in the shadows only to bob to the surface in bright splashes of spinning red, yellow, blue, green, orange, purple, light. Zola grins up at Bucky from the center of the crowd, a living nightmare man come to life. Steve weaves and flashes between bodies like a silvery little fish in the sparks thrown off by the huge mirror ball whirling overhead.

The club is packed, but it’s not a regular business night; this is a party for all of Giovinazzo’s family—his associates and henchmen, their dates or friends (and in one odd instance, their mother). Everyone who is anyone in Giovinazzo’s business, from the thugs to the cops in his pocket, are here. Bucky is here because he was invited by Giovinazzo himself and he could not turn the man down. He was invited to other soirees hosted by the various people he does work for, but Giovinazzo is the only one he didn’t refuse. Bucky respects him too much for that and though he is a freelancer, he is mostly Giovinazzo’s dog. It should bother him more than it does, but it doesn’t because unlike with other handlers, there is no leash and no collar here. Giovinazzo knows the best ways to utilize Bucky’s skills and he likes that; Giovinazzo makes him feel useful in ways that other employers do not.

He wants to leave, go back to Steve’s apartment and sit with him. Steve likes being around him though Bucky also makes him sad or uncomfortable or _something_ —he’s not sure what. All he knows is that he laid beside him this morning and he did not sleep, but it was still restful to be so close to Steve he could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat. Bucky watched Steve’s eyes move beneath their closed lids while he dreamed and wanted to touch him so badly he could feel the tingle of it in his fingertips. After a couple of hours, Bucky got up and went back to his own apartment; it was a cold leaving, but it was necessary. He needed to sleep and he will not sleep beside Steve if he can help it because Bucky almost always wakes up screaming. He said he would stay though and that also means _come back_ and not in a week or even three days time. It means every day, Bucky thinks. That’s the hard part, but if he’s to stop hurting Steve then this is the best way to go about it.

It leaves Bucky vexed and confused, this war inside of him, this need to be there and the desire to run away. He can’t shake the thought he had: _I will ruin you._ Sometimes Bucky wonders if he hasn’t ruined Steve already and it makes him feel shivery inside to know the damage might already be done. Then he thinks of the hope in Steve’s eyes, tells himself there is a difference between what he thinks he’s done and what _is_. Then he thinks that Steve’s hope might be a symptom of the ruin Bucky has caused, not proof it hasn’t occurred yet. It’s a circular argument that always comes back to one place and one place only. It is a place—a conclusion—that is almost as freeing as it is damning: If he hasn’t ruined Steve yet then he eventually will. It doesn’t matter if he keeps going back or if he stays away forever.

“Come here, Winter,” Giovinazzo calls from the plush black velvet sofa he’s seated on. His wife is sitting beside him; a cool, regal woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes as calculating as her husband’s. She has her hand on his thigh, quiet, but possessive. Her name is Chiara and other than saying hello, she hasn’t spoken a word to Bucky, but she has appraised him and seemed satisfied with what she sees.

“Sir?” Bucky asks when he reaches the sofa.

“I got you a present,” Giovinazzo says, reaching into his coat pocket. “‘Tis the season and all that shit.”

“That was not necessary, sir,” Bucky says.

“I know I wasn’t fuckin’ _necessary_ ,” Giovinazzo says as he presents Bucky with a box wrapped in red foil paper and tied with a shiny silver ribbon. “I wanted to. Take it.”

Bucky plucks the small gift box from Giovinazzo’s outstretched palm and turns it from side to side, admiring it. He admits to himself that he is curious what might be contained within. He is also… touched… by the gesture. No one has given him a gift in a long, long time. Occasionally he would be rewarded for a job well done, but that was no different than patting a hound on the head for cornering and holding a wild boar. This is different because Bucky is reminded yet again that though he might see himself as Giovinazzo’s dog, Giovinazzo himself views Bucky as a human being. It’s such an alien experience that he still doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Open it, Winter,” Giovinazzo says, making _go on_ motions with his hands. Chiara smiles faintly and tips her head at Bucky, a more subtle version of what her husband is doing.

“Of course,” Bucky says.

He very carefully opens the little gift, aware of all eyes being on him as he does so. He can practically taste the jealousy in the air. All of the people gathered up here in this private area are the higher-ups in Giovinazzo’s organization, but Bucky is the only one to have received a gift. They resent that Giovinazzo clearly favors him—and has made a point of saying so without ever speaking a word. If Bucky were anyone other than James Winter, aka The Machine, there might well be repercussions if they thought going against Giovinazzo was worth it. As it is, their anger and envy are impotent things for they fear James Winter and Antony Giovinazzo almost in equal measure—and know that if they try anything then _they_ will be the ones to suffer for their actions.

Bucky opens the little box and looks down at his gift, both surprised and genuinely pleased.

“It’s a pocket watch,” he says as he lifts it from the satin lining it rests on.

“Obviously.” Giovinazzo grins at him though. “What did you think it was gonna be, a diamond tennis bracelet?”

“That would have been most… peculiar,” Bucky says as he takes a closer look at the watch. It’s heavy, stainless steel or platinum, not the older brass of the plain watch he carries now, which was purchased at a flea market and has a fine crack in the glass face. The front of the new pocket watch has three black butterflies of inlaid onyx or maybe ebony polished to a high shine. The back has three poppies etched with beautiful clarity of detail on the back. When he pushes the little button to open the watch, he first notes that it has been set to the correct time then notices that between the numbers on the face of the watch is an old-fashioned torch like those that burned pitch, only it is unlit and upside down.

Giovinazzo laughs and shakes his head; something he often does with Bucky. “So, you like it?”

“Yes,” Bucky says honestly. “The… symbols though… It’s very… elaborate and I don’t… I don’t understand the meaning.”

“Thanatos,” Giovinazzo says, leaning forward to pin Bucky with his beetle-bright black eyes. “Those things, they’re his symbols.”

“Oh,” Bucky says with a nod as he takes his old watch out of the pocket on his vest and replaces it with the new one. He gives it one last look before sliding it into its new home, the shining chain even brighter against the black of his vest. He still doesn’t know who Thanatos is, but it doesn’t really matter. “Thank you, sir.”

Giovinazzo rises from his seat and comes to face Bucky, laying a hand on his shoulder. He tenses as usual, but does not flinch away; he is getting used to Giovinazzo touching him. “No, I thank you, Winter. If it wasn’t for you then this year wouldn’t have gone nearly so well for me.” He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re my man, Winter—my Thanatos. My god of death.”

Now Bucky gets it. He blinks at Giovinazzo and feels his lips twitch in the slightest of pleased smiles that before he can help it, becomes a genuine smile. One of the extremely rare ones—a smile like that of Bucky-that-was.

“I would not be where I am if not for you,” Bucky says. “You have my gratitude, sir.”

Giovinazzo smiles back then kisses each of Bucky’s cheeks in turn, _smack-smack_. It’s better than being slapped and kicked any day of the week. When he steps back, Giovinazzo waves at him. “Have a drink, Winter, relax a little damn bit for a change. You’ve earned it. Come the new year, we got even more work to do, but tonight, we’re off the clock.”

“I should really be going, sir,” Bucky says. “I mean no disrespect, but—”

“You got somebody waiting on you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says.

“Why didn’t you bring her?” Giovinazzo says, making a logical though obviously incorrect assumption.

Bucky does not bother correcting him. One day he might, but then again, maybe not. He can still be honest about part of it though: “They don’t know what I do for a living.”

“Ah,” Giovinazzo says with a nod as he sits back down by Chiara. She puts her smooth, olive hand back on his knee and tips her head to the side, watching the exchange. “She wouldn’t like it, huh?”

“No,” Bucky says.

Giovinazzo nods. “Well, I’ll give you some free advice here, Winter: if you don’t believe she’d get it then don’t ever make the mistake of telling her in the name of clearing the air, not if you love her and think she’s worth it.” He holds his finger up and adds, “ _But_ make sure you keep your story straight if that’s the road you’re gonna go down. People hate being lied to even if you’re lying to them for their own damn good. If you don’t think you can do that then cut the girl loose and consider it a loss. Or retire.”

“Retirement is not an option,” Bucky says.

“I didn’t figure it was,” Giovinazzo says. “Then you got to decide which path to travel.”

“I’ve already decided,” Bucky says.

“And that decision is…” Giovinazzo trails off with a raised eyebrow, genuinely curious.

“Lie until they stop asking questions because I’m not leaving,” Bucky says. “I promised I would stay. I don’t always feel that is wise, but I’ve made my decision.”

“And given your word,” Giovinazzo says. “It’s nice to know some people still have honor in this shit heap world we live in.”

“I don’t know if I would call it honor, sir,” Bucky says.

“I would,” Giovinazzo says, once again waving his hands at Bucky. “Go home to your girl, give her a Christmas she won’t ever forget.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says with a nod, wondering how it is that a man like Giovinazzo thinks he knows anything about honor. Maybe he does though; even the worst people can have honor and Bucky does _try_. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Winter,” Giovinazzo says.

“Merry Christmas, James,” Chiara says in a voice like a big cat’s purr. She smiles at him and Bucky realizes something odd: like her husband, Chiara actually _likes_ him.

“Same to you, Mrs. Giovinazzo,” he says then turns to leave the VIP area without even a nod to the others gathered around. They’re only fuming specks in the periphery of his vision; nothing and no one of interest.

He’s almost out of the club when he hears someone calling his name, “Winter! Hey, Winter! _Jim-my Win-ter!_ ”

Bucky curls his upper lip back in a silent snarl then turns to face Kyle Strahan shoving his way through the crowd, almost on Bucky’s heels. He’s drunk, his flaming red Irish hair is a mess, freckled cheeks flushed, bright blue eyes bloodshot. There’s a girl with him, staggering along behind him and she seems more than drunk; she seems high. That observation is compounded by the fact that she keeps trying to lick the air. She has an unusually long tongue and it’s a bit disgusting to watch it flop in and out of her mouth, wagging around in the smoky air like a big, pink worm. There is the instant temptation to slap the bottom of her jaw and make her bite it. Maybe then she’d learn to keep it in her mouth instead of leering stupidly at Bucky while making ridiculous lapping motions with it.

“Heya, buddy!” Kyle says as he comes to a stumbling halt in front of Bucky. “I see ya made it up to the VIP. What’s that like, huh?”

Bucky stares at him and Kyle’s drunken smile falters a bit, threatens to become a scowl. His companion loses her balance and falls into his side with a honk of nasally laughter. Bucky observed them arriving together arm in arm, but they don’t seem very intimate really. It’s not a surprise, all things considered.

“Why won’t ya answer me?” Kyle asks, rocking forward on his heels. “You never fuckin’ answer me.”

“I don’t like questions,” Bucky says.

“Oh, I see, the great Jimmy Winter don’t like questions,” Kyle says with a laugh. “You hear that, Steph?”

Steph licks the air a couple more times, honking out more obnoxious laughter then she says, “He’s hot, Kyley-smiley. Maybe we oughtta bring him home with us.” Then more honking and licking. She is, Bucky decides, one of the most disgusting things he’s ever seen.

“Fuck this asshole,” Kyle says.

“A’right,” Steph says. She honks some more. “I’ll fuck ‘im and you can watch. How ‘bout that?” _Honk-honk-honk-snort-snort-honk-liiiiick_.

Bucky really wants to hit her. He does not often feel the desire to strike women unless it’s part of a mission and even then he keeps it to a minimum. Hitting women isn’t something he finds very agreeable. He thinks it might have something to do with the way his dad would get drunk sometimes after losing his job to the Depression. Once or twice, he slapped Bucky’s mother around a little bit and that had almost made him hate the man. He’d gotten his act together though and never struck their mother again, but Bucky never forgot he’d done it. Maybe even somewhere in the Winter Soldier that memory had lived, not clear, not reachable, but still a part of his mind regardless. However, for Steph, Bucky would make a big exception and knock the holy hell out of her.

“Go away,” Bucky says.

“Hold on a minute, you bastard,” Kyle says. He reaches for Bucky, but he steps back and avoids contact. Kyle and Steph have caused enough of a commotion though that people near them have stopped to watch what’s going on. “I asked you a fuckin’ question.”

“And I told you I don’t like being asked questions,” Bucky says. “Nor do I like you. Go. Away.”

“You need to learn to fuckin’ chill out and make friends, you freak,” Kyle says like he is imparting great wisdom on Bucky. “Go out, get yourself laid. Maybe that’d help pull the stick outta your fuckin’ ass.” He staggers closer, blue eyes narrowed to mean little slits. “I gotcha somethin’ here, compliments of the house.”

He lunges at Bucky then, drunkenness throwing him even more off balance. He collides with him before Bucky can get out of the way and he feels Kyle’s hand fumble partially into his right coat pocket. Bucky recovers after only a split second and when he does, he backhands Kyle so hard he sends him sailing through the crowd. He hit him with his right hand; if it had been his left, Kyle would not currently be alive and would therefore not be moaning and carrying on as he tries to stand up. Steph honks and licks the air, even though she’s also on her ass now since she’s the first person Kyle’s flying body hit. Her nose is bleeding, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed.

Bucky glances up toward the balcony and sees Giovinazzo leaning against the railing with Chiara. He doesn’t look at all unhappy about this turn of events; he’s laughing about it. Beside him, Chiara is smiling broadly as she peers down at Kyle who is still struggling to get to his feet. The lights flash across Giovinazzo’s face in time for Bucky to see Giovinazzo wink at him.

“You broke my fucking face!” Kyle brays as he staggers upright at last.

No one stepped forward to help him and the crowd is a pretty even mix of those who are shocked and those who are quietly amused. Not a single one of them will step forward in Kyle’s defense, however. Kyle is nothing more than a worker ant in this organization and while they may be jealous of Bucky, they also know which side their bread is buttered on—and they know that Bucky _is_ important. Kyle is no one, Bucky is someone; therefore they are all in his corner because in this particular dog eat dog world, you want to be on the side of the biggest, meanest dog in the pack.

“ _YOU FUCK!_ ” Kyle screams as he charges at Bucky.

Bucky slaps Kyle down in the floor again and this time, Bucky can actually _hear_ Giovinazzo laughing. Soon other people join in and in only a few seconds, most everyone is laughing, some real, some forced; all of it humiliating. Kyle lies sprawled out on his belly, spluttering and cursing as he tries to get to his feet again. Bucky doesn’t wait for that to happen, he just turns and walks away. Only when he’s outside in the cold air does he also smile. He’s wanted to pop Kyle Strahan for a while now and even more so given recent developments. Soon, very soon, he’s going to have a proper go at the man, but that’s for later. Tonight he only gave Kyle a taste.

When he’s in his car, Bucky finally thinks to check his pocket to see what Kyle put in there. He finds a short strip of condoms in bright primary colors; red, green and blue. He raises an eyebrow then tosses them onto the passenger seat. How helpful of dear Kyle. Bucky’s lip curls back in another silent snarl as he cranks the car then turns up the radio. Norma Jean screams out of the speakers at him as he drives away into the swift little snow flurries twisting across the street.

He drives home, parks his car then goes upstairs to retrieve Steve’s Christmas gift before leaving again. He takes his usual route and outwardly he remains calm, but Bucky is anxious all over. Anxious to be with Steve again, anxious about seeing him, anxious about his inability to engage in conversation composed of more than stilted sentences. Things cannot go on the way they are and he does not know how to fix them. Maybe he’ll just give Steve his gift and that’ll occupy him for a while. It’s something almost like a plan, Bucky thinks as he makes his way back up the street to Steve’s building.

The door is open as he expected it to be, but Steve is waiting for him in the entryway. When he sees Bucky, he smiles, big and true and real.

“I got this for you,” Bucky says as he thrusts the gift at him. Steve has to take the box or let it hit the floor and he gives Bucky a funny look for it, but his smile doesn’t falter either.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says, looking down at the gift, smile growing even bigger. “I got you something, too, but you’re going to have to wait ‘til Christmas morning.”

“Fine,” Bucky says though his curiosity is indeed piqued now. He expected no gift from Steve and only got him one because it seemed like the sort of thing real people do. That and he wanted to give Steve something; Bucky-that-was had always gotten him some kind of gift. It’s _normal_ and though Bucky doesn’t have a lot of experience with that, he’s willing to try it on and see if it fits. “Open yours now.”

“Why?” Steve asks.

“It won’t keep otherwise,” Bucky says.

“Sure, okay,” Steve says with a shrug. He glances at Bucky through his long, long lashes and grins. “I’m surprised you— I’m surprised you got me something.”

“You’re surprised I came back.” Bucky knows what he started to say and Steve cannot be blamed for thinking such a thing. “I said I would stay and that… means coming back, too. I figured it out. I think.”

“You did,” Steve says. “Let’s go sit down, huh?”

Standing here is fine with Bucky, he can stand for long periods of time without boredom or fatigue setting in, but if Steve wants to sit then he will do that, too. So, they go into the living room and sit. They’ve barely settled onto the sofa before Steve is ripping his package open.

“I can’t believe you wrapped it,” Steve says.

“I didn’t,” Bucky says. “I paid someone to do it.”

“Oh, well, it’s still really nice,” Steve says as he rips the last shred of paper away and reads the top of the box. “Cassandra’s Confections. Huh.” He opens the lid on the box then leans back and laughs, turning his head to smile at Bucky. “More cupcakes.”

“You seemed to… like the other one, so I thought…” Bucky trails off with a slight shrug.

“It was good and these uh… these look even better than that first one,” Steve says. “Not so… smashed.”

“Yes, these cupcakes are not… defective,” Bucky says.

Steve laughs again as he picks out a cupcake, plucks the little green and red ornament decoration off of it and pops it in his mouth. “S’really goo’,” he says, talking around his mouthful of food. “‘Ou ‘ant o’e?”

“I… suppose,” Bucky says. “You pick.”

“Sure,” Steve says. He licks the last of the frosting off his lips and ponders the contents of the box. He gives Bucky one with a little angel dressed in white outlined with gold as the plastic decoration. “Here.”

Bucky almost wants to laugh at the angel, but he doesn’t and only plucks it off and eats the cupcake. He doesn’t really like them, they are far, far too sweet for his tastes, but something about Steve giving it to him makes the cupcake taste better than when Giovinazzo gave him one. Steve eats a cupcake like the first one Bucky gave him (though yes, it is in much better condition) and smiles while he chews. Steve seems so _happy_ and Bucky does not understand that. Happiness is a concept to him, something you read about in books or see on television. To Bucky, happiness is fiction, but he feels better just being around Steve and maybe that’s good enough; maybe it’s _close_ enough.

“How was your night?” Steve asks.

“Uneventful,” Bucky says.

He thinks of Kyle Strahan hitting the dance club floor like a sack of bricks. Steph, her honking laugh and that vile tongue she kept flicking out to lick the air with. His pocket watch, new and shiny in his vest pocket. His watch that he realizes he wants to show Steve. This is something they used to do; whenever either of them would get something new they could barely hold themselves together until they saw each other and got to show it off. Getting new things was so rare; everything they got was usually second, third or even fourth hand, used up and ragged out by the time it fell into their possession. The few truly _new_ things they got were worth crowing about, worth sharing with a friend. Worth saying, _See what I got? You can borrow it you want to,_ because sharing was important, too.

“Really? It’s kinda late is all and you’ve been gone all day,” Steve says.

“I couldn’t sleep here,” Bucky says. “I don’t… sleeping isn’t… It’s not _easy_.” There. He almost had it that time. “Then there was a… work function… I was required to be at.”

“Like a holiday party?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Bucky says. “I got a present.”

“Neat,” Steve says. His face is etched with curiosity, even watching him from the corner of his eye, Bucky can see that.

“Would you… like to…” Bucky huffs out a breath. He can _do this_. He knows all the words. He does. “Would you like to see?”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says.

Bucky takes his watch from his pocket and holds it out to Steve.

“Wow,” Steve says as he takes the watch. He turns it around and around in his hand before opening it to look inside. “This is really snazzy.”

“I like it,” Bucky says.

“What’s all this stuff mean?” Steve asks. “It does mean something, right?”

_Thanatos. God of death._

“No,” Bucky says, taking the watch when Steve passes it back. “It’s just decoration.”

“Really?” Steve asks. “Huh. Well, it’s aces for sure.”

“It is,” Bucky agrees as he puts it back in his pocket. “A very thoughtful gift.”

“Who gave it to you?” Steve asks.

Bucky sees him wince from the corner of his eye, but he understands Steve’s curiosity and concern fine. He doesn’t want to answer the question anymore than he could even if he was so inclined, what with Steve not understanding and all, but he still gets the _why_ of it.

“My employer,” Bucky says. “For… doing good work.”

“So you’re a valuable employee,” Steve says. “That’s really swell, Buck.”

“I am immensely valuable,” Bucky says, thinking of all the money he has squirreled away and all the money he will earn in the future. His services are invaluable to the line of business he has involved himself in and because he is the best—and will always be the best—his services are indispensable.

“To your charity working dentist that you do public relations for,” Steve says with a little curl of a smile, not quite amused, but not as perplexed and unhappy as before. He’s adjusting, at least it seems that he is.

“At the animal shelter,” Bucky adds. Steve coughs out a laugh and leans against Bucky’s side. He tenses, almost jerks away; unexpected movements always put him on the defensive initially. Then he settles back and when Steve opens his mouth to undoubtedly ask if it’s okay, Bucky says, “I’m fine. Touching is… I am unused to it. That’s all.”

“If you’re sure,” Steve says. He’s quiet for a moment then says, “You still make jokes. Do you realize that?”

“No,” Bucky says with a frown as he watches his father teaching his littlest sister how to dance. She’s standing on his feet and looking up at him like he is her whole world. Her greatest hero. That was before the booze and the depression brought on by the Depression. He wonders: Did his father live long enough to dance with her at her wedding? Did she ever marry at all or did she end up a spinster? 

“You do,” Steve says. “You’re lying to me about your job, I know that, but you’re making a joke out of it every time you do. You can’t honestly expect me to believe any of that crap, so you’re just being _you_ , the same old smart aleck you always were.”

“I don’t mean to be amusing,” Bucky says as his frown grows deeper. “How… can I be funny when I don’t… know I am being funny?”

“Because I think maybe you forgot that you are or something,” Steve says. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s like you’re _you_ , just sometimes you don’t know you’re you.”

 _I am not even real_ , Bucky thinks, but keeps that to himself. He knows instinctively that is not something he should ever say to Steve.

“Was it hard?” Steve asks.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“Remembering,” Steve says. “Was it rough on you?”

“It is rough,” Bucky says. It’s an understatement by far, but it’s enough. Steve isn’t blind and he isn’t stupid, but Bucky does not want to tell him outright: _I have gone insane._ If he doesn’t say it aloud then he can pretend that at least to Steve it is not true. “They never stop.”

“The memories?”

“The—” _Ghosts_. “Yes, the memories.”

“Are they bad?”

“Some are very bad,” Bucky says. “Some are worse than nightmares.”

“I’m so—”

“No,” Bucky says. “Do not apologize to me and don’t… don’t _pity_ me. Don’t do that.”

“I can’t help it,” Steve says.

“Try,” Bucky says. “I… I am not your… your… _fault_.” Good. Now piece it all together. “I am not your fault, Steve.” There. Well done.

“I know that,” Steve says turning his head to try and look in Bucky’s face, but he just turns his head farther to the right, avoiding his gaze. “I know. Or I tell myself I do anyway. But… but… What’s it like for you now? Because sometimes it’s really crap for me and I haven’t had to deal with half as much as you have.”

“It’s a fucked up hell hole,” Bucky says. Steve makes a startled sound at Bucky’s language, but he doesn’t have and never did possess Steve’s aversion to profanity; his mother wasn’t nearly as strict about that sort of thing as Steve’s was. “Sometimes I… want to go back… before the war… before all of it. I want to go back to when things were okay. I think that… that… that it would be easier, better. I was different then. Different in a good way. Now I… am not. I am… I am a monster.”

“No, listen to me,” Steve says sitting up to take the side of Bucky’s face in his hand. “Please look at me, Bucky. Come on.” Bucky looks at him then away again and Steve sighs, closes his eyes and says, “Okay. It’s okay. Just hear me then: You’re not a monster. You got messed up— _they_ messed you up and I know they did. I know you’re not all right no matter how much you tell me you are. But you are not a monster. Understand? You’re _not_.”

Bucky wishes he had as much faith in himself as Steve does. Steve fervently wants to believe that Bucky is still a good man deep down inside and Bucky knows that it is untrue. He will allow that Bucky Barnes and even James Winter _might_ have a few good qualities, more than the Winter Soldier ever did because there was no good in that creature. But neither Bucky-of-now or James Winter are truly _good men_. They aren’t empty, emotionless things like the Winter Soldier, but they are not decent human beings either. They are _other_ , caught in limbo between light and dark, but more often than not Bucky-of-now and James Winter are men who live in the shadows and feed off them.

Steve’s belief in him makes something light and warm spread through Bucky’s chest all the same. He has no desire to throw down his mantle as a hit man or to get rid of all his weapons. He does not by any means want to spend all of his free time reading poetry in coffee shops or saving kittens from trees. Bucky does not want to be a good, honest person—that ship has sailed—but for Steve, he finds that he does want to at least try to be a _better_. Not a better man, not a better human being, just _better_ because he is sick-sick-sick and that sickness only gets worse, pushes him closer to the precipice of the abyss. It would be easy to fall into it completely, to let the howling emptiness consume him again—to reactivate the Winter Soldier and push away all that he has relearned about being human. He wouldn’t forget again, but he could shove it all so far down that it would almost be the same thing. Because life _hurts_ and for Bucky, every day is pain.

It isn’t right to look to one man to save him from himself, but Steve has offered himself up willingly as Bucky’s savior. He’s extended his hand for Bucky to take, he started it on the helicarrier and has never stopped offering it to Bucky. _Grab on. Let me keep you._ Bucky turns and looks into Steve’s eyes, truly looks without flinching away from his earnest gaze and he sees something he has missed all this time: Steve is also teetering on the ledge and in danger of falling over into oblivion. All the signs have been there for Bucky to see, but he was too preoccupied with his own ineptness, his clawing madness, to truly focus. Now here it is, plain as day for him to see in Steve’s eyes, turquoise blue with flecks of gold so dark they are almost brown. Bucky has his madness, but Steve has sadness so deep it’s like a well dug right down into the core of him and he’s looking at Bucky like he thinks he can save him from it.

“I can’t save you,” Bucky whispers as he leans so close to Steve that their lips brush together when he speaks.

“Yes, you can,” Steve says. “You’ve always saved me.”

“I will ruin you,” Bucky says, voice shaking as he finally speaks the words that have been bundled up inside of him for so long. They’ve been there since _before_ , since the night they laid in Steve’s bed and Bucky broke both of their hearts in one fell swoop.

“Then ruin me,” Steve says, using his hands to frame Bucky’s face. “I _want_ you to.”

Then he crushes his mouth to Bucky’s swallowing up anything else Bucky might say and he goes with it. This is easier than acknowledging what he really hears in Steve’s voice: _I’ve_ always _wanted you to_. That ruin should spell salvation for anyone is a wild thought to have, but Bucky doesn’t question it. By wanting him even as he is now, Steve has accepted the fact that he might end up ruined in the process. He does not care and he never has. The only one of them it ever bothered is Bucky and he thinks that on some level he’s always known that.

Things go quickly after that. Steve’s hands are everywhere, tugging at the shoulders of Bucky’s suit coat, trembling fingers plucking at the buttons of his shirt. Steve’s t-shirt ends up draped over the television screen. It’s the sound of the TV wobbling on its stand that jerks Bucky back to the here and now. His suit coat is gone, his vest is unbuttoned and his dress shirt is halfway undone as well, one corner of it yanked out of his trousers. Steve’s panting, mouth red and wet, eyes a little wild and becoming unsure now that Bucky has stopped.

“Do you want this?” Bucky asks around his own panting breath.

“Yes,” Steve says with no hesitation. “It’s only ever been you, Buck. Don’t you know that by now?”

“Only me?” Bucky asks.

Steve gets what he means and flushes even deeper red before he nods. “ _Only_ you.”

Which means there is nothing in the apartment just like there wasn’t all those many years ago. Just like the night Bucky didn’t think to ask until later if he had hurt Steve. _Only a little…_ Steve had said, but it had been too much and if he’s going to do this then he’ll be damned if that happens again.

“Then… then wait here.” Bucky’s racing mind has finally lit on something. “I’m not leaving. I’ll… just _wait_.”

Then he’s up and off the sofa before Steve can question him. Bucky bolts down the stairs and out into the cold, not bothering with his usual route to and from his building to stay out of Steve’s view. It only occurs to him as he’s running through the parking garage, car keys already in his hand. He unlocks the doors, yanks open the passenger side and snatches the short strip of condoms off the seat. Who knew Kyle Strahan would ever come in useful.

Bucky runs back to Steve’s; he’s only been gone maybe a minute total, but Steve is already in the process of pulling his shirt back on. He stops when he hears Bucky and turns to look at him, the rejection and hurt fading from his eyes.

“I said I was coming back,” Bucky says.

“You always say that though,” Steve says.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, crossing the room to grab Steve around the waist and kiss him again.

When he pulls back that time, Steve smiles at him and just wraps his arms around Bucky, resting his cheek against his.

“I’m right here,” Bucky murmurs and it’s not easy, but he’s doing the best he can.

“I know,” Steve says. “Where’d you go just now?”

Bucky holds up the condoms for Steve to see. “Lubricant.”

“Ah… okay,” Steve says, turning pink again as he looks at the bright condoms. “They look like party balloons. Where’d you—”

“My car,” Bucky says.

“You have all kinds of things in your car,” Steve says with a smaller smile that turns to a soft moan when Bucky trails a line of sucking kisses up the side of his neck.

While he kisses Steve, he slips his vest off and lets it drop to the floor with Steve’s t-shirt. A moment later, Steve gets back on board and the other side of Bucky’s shirt come un-tucked from his trousers; a moment after that, all of the buttons have been opened. Bucky backs away and when Steve holds out his hand, sweet, hopeful, shy in a way he wasn’t that last and only desperate time, Bucky takes it and lets Steve lead him to the bedroom.

Steve shucks his jeans and boxers; Bucky follows suit, not thinking about it until Steve sees his right arm and says, “Oh, God. What happened?”

“I happened,” Bucky says. “I don’t… don’t talk right now.”

“Your arm though—” Steve turns his big blue eyes back to his face and Bucky just kisses him again because _not right now_.

Steve thankfully gets the hint and they climb up on the bed, Steve gasping, hands roaming all over Bucky, feeling every inch of skin and scar tissue. Bucky kisses him breathless and tells himself that he will do it right this time as he tears open a condom packet. He uses the lube from it to finger Steve while he licks his cock and Steve gasps, back arching as he covers his mouth to muffle the sounds he’s making. Bucky reaches up with his metal hand and pulls Steve’s hand away from his mouth, a soft sound of negation in his throat.

“ _God,_ ” Steve pants as he laces his fingers through the slats of the headboard. “Bucky. _God_.”

Bucky has never given a blow job before, but he’d gotten a few way back when so he has a good idea of what he’s doing. Steve’s reaction says he strongly agrees with that and that pleases Bucky. He crooks his fingers inside of Steve and he looses a hoarse shout that becomes a gasping moan when Bucky doesn’t stop touching him that way. He shivers and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, legs falling wide open to allow Bucky easier access. The long, toned muscles in his thighs bunch and shiver and Bucky can feel his abdominal muscles doing the same beneath his metal hand spread out on Steve’s belly.

Steve is making deep, throaty sounds of pleasure in the back of his throat that become whimpers and low moans when he opens his mouth to gulp in air. His fingers flex against the headboard and Bucky watches all of it, taken with Steve, drunk on him. Seeing him for the first time because the only other time was just a fumble of moments, a collection of want and sadness that ended in a collision of bodies like a slow motion car crash. This is making up for lost time, for not doing it right to begin with, for being gone so long. For ever stopping in the first place.

“Bucky, I’m gonna… if you don’t…. I mean—” Steve cuts off with a short cry as he arches against Bucky, gasping mouth wide open.

Bucky licks and kisses his way back up Steve’s body, scraping pale red lines into his skin as he continues to work his fingers inside of Steve. Bucky licks inside Steve’s mouth, tongue sliding over Steve’s lewd and filthy. Steve tries to kiss him back, but he’s too far gone and if Bucky doesn’t stop pressing his fingers deep inside of him, playing his body like a drum, then Steve’s going to go over the edge without him. Bucky wouldn’t mind, but he knows without having to ask that Steve would. This is nice, but it’s not what either of them truly want—it’s not what Steve has waited over seventy years to have again.

Bucky takes his fingers away and Steve sags back against the mattress, breathing heavy, skin glossy with a fine sheen of sweat. He groans, still trembling as he watches Bucky pick up the condoms again.

“What are you doing? I don’t—you know—have… you know and neither do you, so…” Steve bites at his bottom lip as he watches Bucky put on the condom and Bucky realizes something—Steve liked it the last time, the way there were no barriers between them. He never even thought about it; back then he had figured Steve probably thought it was messy—and it had been, but that was something Bucky liked about it. Apparently he was wrong about that though, but he’s been wrong about lot where Steve is concerned over the years. This isn’t about disease or messiness though, this about the same thing it was when Bucky left to get the condoms to begin with.

“I don’t want to hurt you again,” Bucky says.

“Oh,” Steve says. “It wasn’t bad, Bucky.”

“But it was, too,” Bucky says. “I hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, lacing his fingers behind Bucky’s neck to pull him down. “I understand. Thank you.”

He kisses Bucky slow and deep, breath hitching as Bucky begins to push inside of him. He’s tight and Bucky is being careful, by the time he’s inside of Steve, he’s trembling again and Bucky’s body is tense with the urge to really move. This is Steve’s call though and he knows he’s ready when Steve slides his legs up Bucky’s sides, pressing his knees lightly against his ribs as he says, “All right.”

Bucky kisses him again, hungrier this time as he begins to move. Ghosts flicker like pictures on a distant movie screen, a stream of blurry images in his peripheral vision. The walls ooze blood, little pinpricks of deep red that soon runs in streams across the paint. He smells cotton candy and ditch water, he hears gunfire and the merry sound of a calliope. There’s the burning ache of thawing out again, the gasping, spluttering horror of being yanked out of death and back into life.

And then there is Steve.

He is Bucky’s anchor because as he moans, the ghosts begin to quiet down and the blood draws back into the walls. Bucky stares down into Steve’s face, rapt and attentive, tasting Steve’s breath and listening to the way it catches in the back of his throat. This is where he wants to be. _Here. Right here._ Bucky knows he can’t stay forever in this moment, he can’t and won’t use Steve this way; he isn’t a cure-all, but he can have this. _They_ can have this.

He leans back and drags Steve with him as he rises up onto his knees to change the angle and depth of his thrusts. Steve trembles and cries out, the sound worth more than gold as Bucky keeps and eye on him, gauging, measuring exactly what he’s doing right. When he takes Steve’s cock in his hand, pumping it in time to his thrusts, Steve’s hips buck and he begins to shake in earnest. He makes those soft, almost distressed whimpering sounds in between louder moans as Bucky moves faster, fucks him harder.

Then Steve tenses and gasps, fingers clawing at the bedsheets, back arching-arching-arching as his moan becomes a throaty, raspy cry. He comes all over Bucky’s fingers, shaking and crying out softly as he thrusts through the ring of Bucky’s fingers. As he comes down, Steve slowly sinks back against the sheets. Bucky milks his cock until it’s verging on overstimulation then lets go to lean over Steve and kiss his exhausted moans away.

When Bucky comes, Steve holds onto him, hands stroking down his back, lips pressed to his jaw as Bucky trembles and moans, working his hips in ever-slower thrusts until it’s all over. He braces his weight on his arms, but just barely as he catches his breath. He kisses Steve once more then rolls off him onto his back, strips off the condom and knots the end. He drops it on the floor to retrieve later and for now stares up at the ceiling. He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, but it doesn’t bother him.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says as he rolls onto his side and scoots close to him. “I’m okay.”

“I didn’t—”

“No,” Steve says. Then he sighs. “A little, but look—it’s been a um… long, really long time and it’s not bad. It was _never_ bad and this time wasn’t even like… you know. It hurt a little and only at first, so… yeah.” Steve clears his throat. “Can we stop talking about this now?”

Bucky’s bark of raw laughter surprises him so much that he actually jumps, wondering for a second where that sound came from. He hasn’t laughed in decades, so it’s no wonder it startled him. When he looks over at Steve, he sees he’s smiling, propped up on his elbow looking down at him.

“You don’t have to be afraid of it,” Steve says.

“I’m not the one tiptoeing around sex,” Bucky says.

“I was talking about laughing. You did it again though,” Steve says. “Made a joke.”

“Was it funny?”

“Not really,” Steve says. “But you did it.”

Bucky frowns and wonders about that all over again—how he can exhibit symptoms of a sense of humor and still be unaware of the fact he’s got one at all.

A little while passes where Steve watches Bucky and Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice though he lets Steve take his right arm and examine it more closely. When Steve tries to talk about it, Bucky shushes him. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Ever. There are old scars beneath the newer ones, years upon years of them from when the Winter Soldier would malfunction and attack himself because his head was so _full_ he thought it would pop. His handlers had disapproved, but had never been able to make him quit, though it had made them more diligent in monitoring him and gauging how long to go between resetting and wiping him. He’s known that for a while now, but he cannot remember the biting ever feeling quite so good before. Quite so _necessary_.

“You should let me clean them up,” Steve says.

“Leave them alone,” Bucky says. The bites are _his_ to take care of, his violent creations to see to. “They’ll heal.”

“Fine,” Steve says after a minute, fingers idly tracing the bright red scar on his shoulder from the bullet wound. “This is fresh.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky says through his teeth. Steve is reading him like a map and he doesn’t like it. Too many questions and not enough answers.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “You’re just a big mystery to me now is all and you—”

“I worry you,” Bucky says. “I know. You shouldn’t worry about me. I… am okay.”

“Right,” Steve says with a little annoyed sound in the back of his throat. Then he makes another sound, dismissive this time, like he’s saying _bygones_ to this tense moment. He lays his head on Bucky’s shoulder and says, “One thing though and then I’ll quit.”

“What?”

“You are the one who took that painting out of here, right?”

“Who else would have done it?” Bucky asks.

“I dunno,” Steve says. Bucky can feel his smile against the skin of his shoulder. “Maybe gremlins.”

“What are gremlins?”

“The offspring of a mogwai,” Steve says with pleased laughter.

“What?” Bucky blinks at the ceiling and tries to figure out what the hell Steve is talking about.

“Don’t worry, we’ll watch the movie one day and you’ll understand,” Steve says. “I thought mogwais were real for all of five seconds until Sam started laughing at me.” He huffs out soft laughter. “I wanted one, but not any gremlins. Those things are _bad_.”

“All right,” Bucky says with raised eyebrows. Fireworks explode silently across the ceiling and that’s a nice ghost, a pretty one. He’s content to actually watch this one though he’s not sure if it’s Fourth of July or New Year’s and it doesn’t matter. “You’re very… up to date… on popular culture.”

“Not even close,” Steve says with a snort. “I don’t know which one I’m _farthest_ behind in; music, movies, television or books. There are so many of all of them, but I think music is the hardest. Music is so… vast… compared to when we were kids. I haven’t listened to Nirvana or Pearl Jam or Pantera or Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, The Platters, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Doors, Tom Waits, Sisters of Mercy, The Weeknd… There’s _so much_ that every time I think I’m getting caught up, I realize I’ve been lying to myself. Music is just… I can’t.”

“I have some stuff you can borrow,” Bucky says. One of the first things he remembered after Steve was music and it was also one of the first things he sought out. One of the few _wants_ that hasn’t hurt him yet. He’s a thoroughly embedded member in the congregation of the Church of Song now.

“You like music?” Steve asks.

“I… I love… music,” Bucky says. “Love it.”

“Wow,” Steve says. “That’s so great.” He smiles against Bucky’s shoulder again. Then he lifts his head the tiniest bit. “What’d you do with my painting anyway?”

“Hung it in my living room,” Bucky says.

“Huh.” Steve turns his head and kisses his shoulder. “I should be mad about that, I guess, but I’m not. You uh… You liked it?”

“It’s an accurate likeness,” Bucky says. “You painted it and I like that.”

“Thanks,” Steve says softly. “I didn’t mean to paint you like that. I thought I shouldn’t have, that I—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says. “I like it. It… looks good… on my wall.”

“There’s so much I want to say to you,” Steve says. Then he yawns. “So much.”

“Say it later,” Bucky says. “I’m not… going anywhere.”

“You swear?”

“Cross my heart and… and hope to die,” Bucky says.

“Not that last part,” Steve says around a soft, kind of sad laugh that becomes another yawn. “I should shower, but I don’t want to.”

“So do that later, too,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“Because you’re really staying,” Steve says as he settles against Bucky’s side with greater intent, sinking into the mattress, snaking one arm around Bucky’s naked waist.

“Yes,” Bucky says. He thinks for a moment how to do this, but then his body remembers for him. He turns his head and kisses Steve’s forehead. Steve makes a contented snuffling sound and squeezes Bucky gently in a one-armed, sideways naked hug that makes Bucky’s lips twitch into a little smile.

“Merry Christmas, Bucky,” Steve says, voice slurring a little as he drifts off.

Bucky strokes his hair and doesn’t say a word, just watches the ghost of rain fall down on them both. When he closes his eyes, he can hear the soft, steady pit-pat-patter of it on the roof of Steve’s old bedroom.


	12. Chapter 12

_I am terrified by this dark thing_   
_That sleeps in me;_   
_All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity._

— Sylvia Plath   
“Elm”

Bucky is still lying beside him when Steve wakes up the next morning. He’s sleeping, but he doesn’t look peaceful; he twitches and makes soft muttering sounds in the back of his throat, his fingers flex lightly against the back of Steve’s shoulder. Steve watches him for a minute, notes the dark circles under his eyes now that he can see them in the bright light of day. Bucky did tell him that sleeping isn’t easy for him; it’s really the only thing he has told Steve. He lies there for another moment, taking it for what it is—Bucky still here, asleep beside him, whole and alive. On the surface it looks right, looks normal, like all of the pieces fit again, but Steve does try not to delude himself too much. He brushes his fingers lightly across Bucky’s cheek and when he shivers, Steve decides to leave him be. As restless as his sleep is, Bucky still needs it because the circles under his eyes say he doesn’t get a lot of the stuff.

Steve gets out of bed, stretches and winces at the pleasant ache in his body before he goes to shower and get dressed. Bucky doesn’t stir throughout it all and is still twitching his way across the dream sea when Steve walks out of the bedroom to make breakfast. He cracks eggs for an omelet and thinks about last night, about how it felt to be with Bucky again. It felt good, but there’s still a lot wrong with this picture, namely that Bucky keeps Steve at arm’s length every step of the way. Steve doesn’t know anything about his life now, not what he does for a living, what kind of car he drives. He doesn’t even know where Bucky lives.

On one hand, Steve knows that it’s Bucky doing that _thing_ he’s always done—trying to keep Steve safe. On the other hand though it feels like Bucky is leaving an escape hatch open so he can bail out whenever he so chooses. If he left Steve’s apartment today and decided to never again come back there would be nothing Steve could do about it. He couldn’t go to Bucky’s door and demand an answer, he couldn’t track him down at work, he couldn’t even get Stark to run the plates on Bucky’s car. Bucky would once more become a collection of myths and rumors. 

By refusing to tell Steve anything—and dodging every question aimed at finding out—Bucky is effectively keeping Steve separate from everything else. He will not allow Steve to become a part of his life and that is not going to work. _None_ of this will work if Bucky keeps compartmentalizing Steve and treating him like every little thing he asks basically falls under the header of, _That’s above your pay grade._ Before, Steve and Bucky knew everything about each other. Now Steve doesn’t even know how Bucky takes his coffee or if he even likes coffee. For all Steve knows, Bucky is a tea drinker now. They’ve never been able to stay away from each other, so even if Bucky did walk out and not come back the next day he would come back eventually. It’s inevitable— _they_ are inevitable—but if Bucky keeps everything to himself then he’s never going to be anything more than a stranger that Steve used to know.

He pours the eggs into a skillet then leans his forehead against the cabinet door with a sigh. Something has to give here and Bucky isn’t going to like it, but it has to be done. Steve decides to wait until at least after breakfast because conversations like the one he’s about to attempt should not be had on empty stomachs. Satisfied, Steve goes to get a block of cheese out of the fridge to grate for the omelet and busies himself with that for a little while.

It’s as he’s sliding the omelet out of the skillet onto a plate that he hears a muffled scream from the bedroom. He dumps the omelet the rest of the way onto the plate and drops the skillet on the counter as he rushes to the bedroom.

Bucky is curled up on his side of the bed, face buried in the crook of his right arm and shaking like he’s coming apart. His eyes are screwed tightly closed and his teeth are sunk so far into the meat of his arm that Steve can see the blood welling around them. He screams again before Steve can make it to the bed and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Bucky, hey,” Steve says. “Let go of your arm. You’re okay.”

Bucky jerks like he’s been shocked, throwing himself backward and off the bed. He lands on his feet, quick and agile as a cat. He stares at Steve and for one terrible second there is no recognition in his eyes. He’s not even looking at Steve; he’s somewhere else altogether. Then he blinks and his tense, fight-ready posture relaxes as he settles into an at-ease stance. He’s sweaty even though the apartment is cool and it’s obvious he’s shaken up, but he’s trying to compose himself.

“Hello,” Bucky says. He blinks rapidly before looking away from Steve and across the room. He’s staring now, not watching anything. “I… have bad… dreams.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says though it’s anything but.

Bucky swipes a hand across his bloody mouth then glances down at the fresh bite on his arm. Steve follows his gaze and winces in sympathy. He saw them the night before and even in the weak light the bites looked bad, but they’re so much worse in the daylight. There are scabs covering wounds in the shape of Bucky’s teeth and bruises ringing each set of bites ranging from blackish purple to the nasty faded yellow and green of older bruises. There are a couple of spots that are sunken in, deeper, like a bite taken from an apple. Steve’s stomach wobbles at the sight, at knowing Bucky has actually bitten himself so viciously he took out chunks of his own flesh.

They definitely have to talk because _this_ cannot go on either. This is self-destructive and brutal and it hurts Steve just to see it, the way the blood flows in thin tributaries of bright red that twist down paths and valleys of scars and scabs, filling up the little craters where Bucky’s torn holes in himself. Steve shifts his weight from foot to foot; he wants to hug Bucky, but he doesn’t know how he’d welcome that right now.

So, new plan, “I made breakfast if you want to come eat. Or you can grab a shower then eat. I can stick it in the oven to keep warm.”

“Shower,” Bucky says.

“Sure,” Steve says.

Bucky moves then to get his pants lying in a heap by Steve’s right foot. When he stands up, he glances at Steve then leans in and kisses him. “Good morning and I’m… I’m sorry about… that.”

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve says. “We all have bad dreams.”

Bucky’s lips curl up in a smile that looks a lot like a flinch. “Yes, we do.”

He walks into the bathroom and when he shuts the door, Steve leaves him be and goes to cook some bacon and make coffee. Maybe he’ll make toast, too, you can’t really go wrong with toast. _This has got to stop,_ Steve thinks as he takes the bacon out of the fridge. All of it. He can’t stand by and watch Bucky bite himself bloody; it’s a symptom, not a sickness in and of itself, but it’s a bad sign. When people start biting out hunks of their own flesh, Steve figures things only have two outcomes: they continue to go downhill or something is done to help the person correct the behavior. Things can’t get much worse than biting yourself as a way to cope with whatever the real problem is, at least Steve doesn’t think so.

Steve carries on with his business even when he hears Bucky walk into the living room. He smells like soap and more blood than before and a shiver runs through Steve. He doesn’t need to ask or see Bucky’s arm to know he stood in the shower and gnawed at himself; a part of him doesn’t even want to look because it’s heartbreaking to see those marks. By the time he turns around, Bucky’s got his shirt from the night before on, covering both of his arms though he hasn’t bothered to button it and when he moves just right, Steve catches a glimpse of the scar on his shoulder left by a bullet. _Who shot you, Buck?_ Steve thinks, remembering the faint smell of salted iron and copper on Bucky the night Steve had his little moment, how pale Bucky had been. _And why?_

“Breakfast,” Steve says as he takes the omelet out of the oven, picks up the plate of bacon with the toast stacked on top and takes them to the table. “Can you grab a couple of plates? They’re in the cabinet—”

“Beside the stove,” Bucky finishes for him.

“Yeah.” Steve raises his eyebrows. “You really have been stalking me.”

“I am thorough,” Bucky says as he opens the cabinet.

Steve shakes his head with a soft laugh. “I guess you are.”

They eat breakfast without a word spoken between them; Bucky seems unbothered by the silence, but to Steve it’s awkward. At least it is until he redirects his attention to watching Bucky surreptitiously. He learns little things about him, they’re not significant, but they are better than nothing. Bucky puts roughly a metric ton of black pepper on his omelet before he seems satisfied with it. He still likes coffee and drinks it with no sugar and just the barest hint of creamer the same way he always did. He puts butter on one slice of toast and raspberry preserves on the other slice then sandwiches them together. Steve finds himself smiling at the old familiar quirk; Bucky never put butter and jam on the same slice of toast. He could never say why, only that he didn’t like it. It was one of those little things about a person that feels so intimate, so comfortable and there’s something a lot like relief in Steve to see that Bucky still does that.

When they’re finished with breakfast, Bucky gets up and takes the dishes into the kitchen. He washes them and Steve watches him, oddly content with doing that and only that for the time being. Bucky comes back to the table when he’s done with the dishes, but instead of sitting in his chair again, he goes to Steve and holds his hands down for him to take.

“What?” Steve asks. Then he glances up and sees the question in Bucky’s eyes—and the intent. The desire. The way the dark grey-blue burns the littlest bit brighter. Steve smiles up at him and says, “Oh.”

“Oh,” Bucky echoes with a little smile as Steve takes his hands.

He lets Bucky tug him up from the chair and lead him into the bedroom where he licks and sucks Steve into a trembling mess. An hour later, he’s wrung out, sprawled on his belly with Bucky lying beside him, head turned so his cheek is resting against the middle of Steve’s back.

“I’m so glad my neighbors are away for the holidays,” Steve says as he stretches, cheeks heating up at just the thought of what the Myers family would have heard from his apartment the night before and just a few minutes ago.

Bucky makes a soft sound that Steve thinks is amusement. “Yes, it is a good thing.”

Steve grins then gets up to go shower. He stops at the foot of the bed and nibbles his bottom lip in thought before he asks, “Come with me?”

“Didn’t I just do that?” Bucky asks.

Steve’s smile that time is delighted. “You did it again.”

“Made a joke?”

“Yes,” Steve says.

“Was it funny?”

“Actually, it kinda was that time,” Steve says. “It was lewd though.”

Bucky nods then rolls out of bed. “Progression is necessary in order for anything to evolve.”

“And that was weird,” Steve says.

Bucky blinks and turns his head, tracing the movement of something across the room, watching it until Steve touches his shoulder.

“Shower,” he reminds Bucky.

“Right,” Bucky says. “It is also necessary to wash the fuck off.”

Steve grimaces at that and starts to say something then stops and watches Bucky instead. He’s made no move to head on into the bathroom to shower; he’s still watching whatever it is and he does not look pleased by it. His eyes are chips of dirty ice now, jaw tight, lips pressed thin as he glares at nothing Steve can see. God, he hallucinates, Steve’s certain of it now and what does that mean? Is Bucky schizophrenic? Is that even possible? Does he hear voices? Wait, no, Steve knows he does because of how he cocks his head. Does Bucky think Jesus waits for him in the glow of his refrigerator light? Does he believe praying mantises are really aliens? Does he think he can smell crickets?

No, probably not, Steve thinks. He remembers a man that everyone called Crazy Gary who used to wander the streets of Brooklyn, how he behaved, the things he would say like, _Owl man flutter ‘round my door all night. Gonna have to shoot him with my big gun. Owl man gonna come and take my soul away._ Crazy Gary would mutter it under his breath over and over until he couldn’t take it anymore and would start screaming it at the top of his lungs. He had scared the bejeezus out of Steve and Bucky when they were little kids. Now Steve realizes that Crazy Gary was harmless, but that doesn’t change how he’d run his little legs right off to get away from Crazy Gary if he saw him coming. By the time they got to middle school Crazy Gary was gone; Steve remembers overhearing someone telling his mother that he’d gotten his hands on a gun after all, but the only man he’d shot with it had been himself. He also remembers that person saying, _Nuts like Gary have really short lifespans._

Bucky isn’t like Crazy Gary, not by a long shot, even if he is a little scary in his own way. Steve isn’t afraid of him, but if he steps outside of things and looks in from a different perspective, Steve can very well see how Bucky is probably the Official Creepy Neighbor in his building (wherever the hell that is). He can’t stop from wondering if nuts like Bucky also have really short lifespans. That scares the hell out of Steve, more than Loki, more than aliens, Nazis, HYDRA, the Red Skull—and all of those things put together. Bucky could walk out of here one day, go find someplace nice and quiet to die like a mortally wounded animal, except he’d euthanize himself with a bullet to his head. Steve knows Bucky would shoot himself; he can even picture it and that makes his chest hitch with preemptive sorrow.

“What do you see?” Steve asks because there’s no time like the present to start trying to chip away at Bucky’s wall. The sooner they get into this, the better chance Steve has of avoiding the possible end of the story—Bucky’s body, head blown off, sitting slumped in a dirty motel room somewhere.

“Nothing,” Bucky says, snapping his head around to glance at Steve before walking into the bathroom. “Shower.”

“Crap,” Steve says under his breath as he walks in after him. He’s not letting it go, but they can’t talk about such things in the shower and if he can use it to even just ground Bucky for a little while then it feels a bit like a victory, albeit a short-term one.

After their shower, Steve is about ready for a nap. Come to find out, Bucky has incredibly clever hands and his metal fingers are just as dexterous as his flesh and bone fingers. He’s also apparently ambidextrous now, which he was not before. Steve leaned his forehead against the shower wall, hot spray beating down on him as he moaned and helplessly fucked the tight ring of Bucky’s clever mechanical fingers wrapped around his cock. He won’t deny that it was a welcome distraction from all the horrific _what ifs_ floating around in his mind previously.

He thinks about that after he’s dressed again though: Is Bucky doing all of this to try and distract him? Does he think if he keeps Steve in a post-orgasmic daze (because he’s had more of those in two days than he’s had in about eighty years) that he won’t pry? Bucky is crazy as a loon (no point in lying about that) but he’s a far cry from dumb; he’s bound to have figured out by now that Steve will ask more questions. That Steve will _keep_ asking them until something gives, it’s only a matter of time. Steve doesn’t think that’s the only—or even biggest—reason why Bucky’s doing all of this; he seems to be enjoying things and he’s likely distracting _himself_ as well. Not like he’s using Steve, he’s just taking advantage of finally having him back and on that front Steve’s not about to complain. Steve still can’t shake off the feeling that Bucky is trying to distract him, too. Bucky’s not the only smart cookie in this classroom, after all.

Well, that’s not going to work, Steve thinks as they wander back into the living room. He’s going to give Bucky his present though because he’s been dying to do so since he had the idea and started putting everything together for him. Then they’re going to have dinner. _Then_ they’re going to talk whether Bucky wants to or not.

“Sit,” he says, motioning for Bucky to sit on the sofa. “I’ll get your present.”

Bucky does as he says and waits. Steve dares think he even looks the slightest bit excited. It’s something about the slight curl at corners of his his lips, that amazing mouth that always made Steve think of a cat and looks like Bucky’s smiling a little even when he isn’t. It’s in the way his eyes get brighter, his attention sharper. How he sits up straighter and lifts his head.

When Steve puts the gift in his lap, Bucky looks down at it and just touches the shiny green paper, running his fingers over it.

“Go on, Buck, open it,” Steve says. “It’s… okay.” And it’s not okay either because it’s almost like Bucky is waiting for permission to open his own gift and that’s kind of awful.

But when Bucky nods and lifts his head to glance at Steve, he sees that he is actually smiling for a change. It’s a real smile, a _Bucky_ smile. Then he looks back down at the paper and begins what turns out to be a real test of Steve’s patience in waiting for Bucky to actually get the present open. He’s so careful with the tape, working his fingers under the seams to loosen it before gently pulling it free. It feels like it takes _forever_ for Bucky to neatly fold the paper and set it aside.

“Wow, that was precise,” Steve says.

“I didn’t want to… mess it up,” Bucky says as he lifts the lid off the box. “It’s… pretty.”

Steve rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder and watches as he lifts the scrapbook Steve put together for him out of its nest of tissue paper. He called Sam the day after they had Chinese together and asked him for one more favor. Once Sam knew what it was, he’d been happy to help. Between the two of them, they’ve put together a mighty fine memory book for Bucky. Bucky opens it and touches the first page, which is a drawing Steve did of their old block in Brooklyn.

“It’s so you can catch up, you know? I put all kinds of stuff in there that I thought you might find interesting,” Steve says.

He looks on as Bucky turns the pages. The first few pages are school pictures—single photos and class photos—Steve managed to scrounge up from every year but fifth for some reason. There are pictures of Bucky’s family at holidays, at pre-Depression barbecues when there’d been enough meat—enough food—that even poor people could do such things, at birthday parties and at the beach. There are their military dress portraits, pictures of them from the war, pictures of them with the Howling Commandos. There are pictures of Peggy Carter (but none of Howard Stark, Steve worried that might upset Bucky). There are wedding and birth announcements printed from microfiche (Bucky is an uncle twelve times over). There’s a proud and no doubt expensive full color print-out from a newspaper of his youngest sister’s graduation picture from Duke University. She never did marry, which wasn’t much of a surprise when Steve found out. She became a doctor and lived a full life, devoting the latter half of her career to Alzheimer’s research. All of that is in there, too.

There are obituaries for both of Bucky’s parents and when he stares at them for the longest time, Steve starts to apologize for that, but Bucky reaches up and touches his fingers to Steve’s lips. He says, “Don’t. I needed to know.” There are also obituaries for Bucky’s sisters and his Great Aunt Jeanette, his Grandfather William who was going on a hundred when Bucky shipped off to war and died at one hundred and two. Bucky’s mother, in comparison, only made it to seventy-eight, his father to sixty-seven. There are obituaries for four nephews (all dead because of war except for one) and one of his nieces who died in childbirth (the infant did not survive either and that tiny, sad obituary is included as well).

When Bucky finally closes the scrapbook he sits with his head down, breathing deep and slow, a little ragged, but nothing too bad. “I missed so much,” he says at last.

“We both did. I know it’s different for you though,” Steve says. Before Bucky can cut him off, he adds, “And for that, I am sorry. It’s got to hurt, but you deserve to know.”

Steve lost a hell of a lot, but he got off easy on one front: he had no family left by the time he went into the ice. Bucky did and now they’re all gone except for one nephew, two nieces and a few great nieces and nephews. Bucky came back to find he was alone, all the grieving and funerals over and done with. Steve at least got to leave knowing there was nothing waiting for him at home. Bucky had fallen from the train with a huge family hoping for his safe return, all of whom died never knowing their son and brother had survived after all.

“How long did it take you to put this together?” Bucky asks.

“Not as long as you’d think,” Steve says. “I knew what I was looking for and I also had a lot of help.”

“Friends,” Bucky says.

“Yep.” Steve leans closer when Bucky slips an arm around his waist.

“What’s that like?”

“Having friends?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t remember?” Steve asks.

“I do and… I don’t,” Bucky says. “I remember what it was like being friends with you. The rest… I know their names, but not… It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s nice to have friends again,” Steve says. “It took me a while to make any after they defrosted me. I didn’t want to let go of you or the Commandos, but I realized I had to. I couldn’t live the rest of my life alone, though half the time I still felt like I was alone anyway. I still feel that way. I don’t fit in with them even though they’ve made a place for me in their lives. It’s swell of them to do it, but I’m not like them and I don’t think I ever will be. And… and none of them are you, so none of it ever felt right anyway. Sam’s the only actual friend I have now, aside from you. It’s not the fault of the others and it’s not my fault. We’re just from completely different lifetimes and none of us understand each other, no matter how much we like to pretend we do.”

Steve sighs and thinks for a moment before also saying, “No one else has ever been you though. I don’t think there can ever be another you. You’re irreplaceable, Buck.”

Bucky starts lightly and Steve only shrugs, smiling to himself. It’s the truth, it’s always been the truth. It always will be. Friends like Bucky—whether you fall in love with them or not—are once in a lifetime friends; that one person who really _fits_. Not like some silly notion of soul-mates, just the blue to your yellow, the jelly to your peanut butter, the Curly to your Moe; complementary.

 _You’re my only_ real _friend, Steve._ Bucky said that to him the night he came back after he crushed Steve’s heart. He can remember him saying it like it was yesterday because Bucky was an honest guy, but that had been raw, too, like it had been painful to say it out loud—or to admit it, maybe. Bucky had a lot of acquaintances who thought they were his friends, but none of them ever really were besides Steve. There was always something guarded about Bucky, walls he erected around himself with witty banter and snappy comebacks, a Devil-may-care attitude, dazzling smile and a flirty laugh. No one ever really knew Bucky though, not the way Steve did. No one knew how much he liked to draw, though he was always saying how he’d never be as good at it as Steve. They didn’t know Bucky liked Beethoven as much as he liked Cab Calloway. They didn’t have the first clue that when no one was looking, Bucky’s favorite thing to do was kiss Steve Rogers, someone they never understood why a guy like Bucky Barnes would want to be friends with to begin with. Little Stevie Pee Pants was a complete dweeb, after all.

Now even Steve doesn’t know Bucky Barnes and it’s eating him up inside.

They lean back on the sofa and when Bucky opens the scrapbook to begin leafing through its pages again, slower this time, reading each and every little scrap of text, Steve leaves him to it. This is as important as the conversation which looms closer with every tick of the clock inside of Steve’s head.

Bucky is still reading through the scrapbook and looking closely at all of the photographs when Steve gets up to make them Christmas dinner. Sam invited him to his place to eat with his sister and aunt again, but Steve turned him down because he hoped Bucky would come by. His gamble played out well, but Steve’s been so stressed and preoccupied he didn’t think to buy any kind of actual holiday-type foods. He does, however, have roasted turkey deli meat and a box of Stove-Top Stuffing. He prepares the stuffing and while he waits for it to set for the recommended five minutes, Steve makes them each two massive turkey sandwiches on toasted herbed ciabatta bread (great stuff, that). After he’s set the table and grabbed them each a beer from the fridge, Steve calls for Bucky to come dig in.

Christmas dinner goes a lot like Christmas breakfast—they eat and don’t say a word. It’s only when Steve’s through eating and Bucky’s nearly finished that he breaks the silence.

“Bucky, where do you live?” Steve asks. He’s settled on this to begin with because to him it’s the easiest question to ask. The way Bucky tenses says he does not agree with Steve’s assessment whatsoever.

“In an apartment,” Bucky says.

“That is _not_ an answer,” Steve says, annoyed _just like that_. He tells himself not to be, but it bubbles up to the surface quicker than he can choke it back down again. “Don’t be sarcastic, Bucky, just answer the question.”

“I was being sarcastic?” Bucky asks. He seems legitimately perplexed by that idea. “I thought I was being honest.”

“You’re being sarcastic right now,” Steve says because even though Bucky looks perplexed, it doesn’t change the fact he’s being a smartass. He can feel his eyes narrowing on Bucky, but Bucky isn’t looking at him anyway, so it’s not like it matters. He takes a deep breath and tells himself, _Once more with feeling._ “Where do you live?”

“In an apartment,” Bucky says again with a frown. He’s turning into a big knot sitting there, sandwich laying on his plate, forgotten now as he tenses up-up-up.

“Bucky!” Steve slaps his hand on the table hard enough that Bucky jumps and does look at him that time. “Stop it. Just _stop it_.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” Bucky doesn’t yell, but there’s a harsh, grating roll to the tone of his voice.

If Steve pushes him too much, he’s liable to snap. Then Steve thinks, _Good_ ; maybe that’s exactly what needs to happen and he can handle the fallout if he gets caught up in it. You don’t ask for something like this, pursue it and devil it only to run away if/when it comes back and bites you on the ass later. You might have to be careful what you wish for, but if you know what it is you’re seeking then it’s your responsibility to deal with the outcome. Steve accepts that and plows right on, the same old pit bull terrier he’s always been.

“I want to know you again,” Steve says. “I want to ask you questions and get straight answers, not avoidance and sidestepping. I can’t be a part of your life if you won’t let me be. You can’t keep doing this, keeping me at arm’s length, coming and going as you please and expecting me to ask nothing in return. I’m not some dirty secret or some _stranger_. Don’t put me in a box in your head and keep me there, separate from everything else.”

Bucky is starting to tremble, he’s tapping his fingers lightly against the tabletop. He’s staring over Steve’s shoulder, looking at something that isn’t really there.

“What… What do… What do you want to know?”

“I want to know where you live, what kind of car you drive, what your favorite song is, what you like to eat.” Steve stops for a second then tells himself to keep going; he’s gone this far and there’s no sense in turning back now. “I want to know what you’re looking at because you’re sure not looking at me or even the walls. Damnit, Bucky, I want to know _you_. All of you. All of the ugly parts, the secrets and bad dreams. I want you to let me in, just a little bit and then a little bit more because you are falling apart and killing me. I don’t want us to die this way because if you go then _I_ go. It’s just that simple and that hard, I know that now.”

“No,” Bucky says through his teeth, shaking his head from side to side. His fingers scrape across the tabletop like he’s seeking purchase, some way to hold on to himself. “ _No_.”

“Bucky, _please_.” Steve can’t keep the note of pleading out of his voice now and he’s starting to feel bad—awful—about doing this after all. Bucky’s not just shaking his head, his entire body is trembling so hard Steve can hear the faint rattle of their plates on the table and feel the vibrations telegraphing through the wood.

Bucky fists his hands in his hair and makes an animalistic sound through his teeth, part scream, part snarl. It’s when he starts rocking that Steve starts to get up from his seat; he will apologize and sooth Bucky as best he can. He made a mistake by pushing this hard. He thought it was the right thing to do, but now he thinks he was so wrong about that.

“Do you have ghosts?” Bucky asks. His voice is faint and strained, he’s looking down, fingers still tangled in his hair, but at least he’s spoken.

Steve lets out a breath and shakes his head. That doesn’t make sense. God, what has he done? “No,” Steve says. “This is a new building, I think and even if it wasn’t, I’m… uh… not sure ghosts are even real.”

Bucky makes a bitter, ugly sound in the back of his throat that Steve thinks might be laughter; mad, _mad_ laughter. “I see ghosts all the time.”

“Here?” Steve says, brows knitting together in confusion. He used to believe in such things, but now he’s not so sure; he does allow though that if aliens are real then ghosts can be, too.

“ _Everywhere_ ,” Bucky snarls at him.

“Oh,” Steve says. He gets it now as he sits back down in his chair with a thump. He thinks about Crazy Gary and the owl man come to take his soul away. “What kind of ghosts?”

Bucky lifts his head and looks at Steve—through Steve—then glances over his shoulder. “My mother is standing right behind you,” Bucky says slow and cold. His eyes are angry, glassy, _terrible_. “She’s wearing the sweater I bought her at a garage sale on the Upper East Side.” He starts rocking again. “They never go away, they never stop. _THEY WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE!_ ”

Bucky’s scream startles Steve so badly he rocks back in his chair. Before he can get up, Bucky has shoved his own chair back. Steve rises to go to him, but before he reaches Bucky, he slams his head into the wall so hard he dents the plaster.

“Get out, get out, _get out!_ ” He screams as he pulls back and does it again just as Steve reaches him. There’s a bright smear of blood on the dented wall and plaster dust caking in the cut on Bucky’s forehead.

“Oh, Jesus, Bucky,” Steve says as he grabs him and tries to pull him back. “Stop it, please stop it. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Bucky rears back against him, pops him in the face with the back of his skull then surges forward again to bang his head into the wall. Steve manages to hold him back just enough he doesn’t do any kind of serious damage, but the crack of his face against the bloody drywall is still much too loud.

Steve jerks him back to get him away from the wall and they go staggering backward, Bucky fighting him every inch of the way. He stomps on Steve’s foot and twists out of his grasp, whirling to glare at him, blood running down his face now from two cuts; the one on his forehead and another in his eyebrow. He busted his nose and split his bottom lip, too. His face painted red and the ghostly greyish white of gypsum powder.

“Do you get it now?” Bucky asks him. “Are you satisfied?”

“No,” Steve says. “I hate it—hate that this has happened to you, hate that you’re so messed up and trapped inside your head the way you are. I hate that this is how you got your memories back because that’s what the ghosts are, right? Memories?”

“Yessss,” Bucky growls at him. He slaps himself upside the head with his metal hand and Steve makes a sound a ridiculous lot like _uh-oh_ when he does. Bucky could do real damage to himself and this is Steve’s fault, he let the dragon out of the cave. Now it’s roaring through his apartment, breathing fire and bringing hell with it. “I can’t get them out. I just want them _out_.” He digs his metal fingers into his scalp like he means to pry open the lid of his skull and claw the ghosts—hallucinations—memories out of his mind.

“Quit,” Steve says as he steps forward and grabs Bucky’s wrist. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Oh, no, not that,” Bucky says in this eerie sing-song voice that is not like him at all; not like he used to be nor like he is now from what Steve’s seen. He tries to yank his arm back and when Steve tightens his grip, Bucky actually does growl at him. He gives one more tug, but the angle is wrong and Steve’s got better leverage here. His finger slip and his grip loosens—Bucky’s as strong as he is or close to it—but he tightens his grip again at the last second.

“Let. Me. Go,” Bucky says.

“I’ll never let you go, Buck,” Steve says. “Not ever.”

Bucky stares at him, shaking all over, angry as a raging bull and mad as a hatter. It’s really no surprise when he uses his right fist to punch Steve in the side, knocking the breath out of him and making him finally let go of Bucky’s left arm. He’s spoiling for a fight now, a _real_ fight and Steve can do that. He doesn’t want to do it, but if it’s what Bucky needs then he can give it. He’d rather Bucky hurt him than himself any old day and Steve trusts him not to kill him now; he knows that much is true.

So, he hits Bucky back.

Bucky screams wordlessly and rushes Steve. They fall into the coffee table and when it breaks beneath their combined weight and force, all hell breaks loose.

By the time they stop hitting each other, Steve’s living room is thoroughly wrecked and there are even more holes in the walls. His elbow went through the window that faces the building across the way (if his neighbor is at home and not blind after all then they got a hell of a show) and cut the hell out of him. Bucky rolled through some of the glass that fell into the living room and he’s got a thin splinter of it poking out his lower back. Steve can see it because Bucky is bent over his legs while he catches his breath and he absently reaches over and plucks it out so it’ll heal. Bucky doesn’t even wince. They’re bloody and tired, the Christmas tree is laying on the floor in a halo of shattered glass ornaments; the lights twinkle against the dark splashes of blood on Steve’s light blue carpet. What a damn mess. He is _so glad_ his neighbors are away for the holidays or someone would have called the cops on them, of that there is no doubt.

Bucky is calm though as he unfolds himself to lean against the wall beside Steve, breathing heavy from the exertion, but nothing more than that. His head is hanging, hair in disarray, blood dripping from his face and onto the floor between his legs. Steve hurts all over and has no doubt Bucky does, too.

“At the rate my holidays are going, someone’s going to die on New Year’s,” Steve says to break the silence, to try and lighten the mood. He’s not angry with Bucky because he did ask for this. He told himself he would deal with the fallout and he will. No matter how bad it might look to someone on the outside, this is progress. It’s violent and painful, but that doesn’t make it any less of a step in the right direction.

Bucky finally lifts his head and tips it back to lean against the wall. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and steady now. After a minute, he tips further to the side and lays his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“It’s gonna be all right, Buck,” Steve says as he puts his arms around him. “You’ll see.”

“I fucked up Christmas,” Bucky says a little while after that.

“I think we both did that,” Steve says. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.”

“No, you… shouldn’t have,” Bucky says.

“I’m still glad you told me,” Steve says. He runs his fingers through Bucky’s snarled hair, carefully picking the knots out.

“I’m insane,” Bucky says.

“You’re not alone though,” Steve says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Neither… are… you,” Bucky says. “And I’m not… I’ll be right here.”

“I know,” Steve says as he leans his head against Bucky’s. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything,” Steve says.

“You, too,” Bucky says.

When he sits up to kiss Steve, slow and gentle, Steve kisses him back, tasting the way their blood mixes together in their mouths. It should be disgusting, but it isn’t, not even close. Steve deepens the copper-cream flavored kiss with his fingers resting lightly on Bucky’s pulse; loving the feel of it thumping against the pads of his fingers. Loving Bucky as much as he ever did, no matter what.

“‘The Great Southern Trendkill’,” Bucky says a few minutes later.

“What?” Steve asks, thinking he was wrong (again) and nothing is even close to better and progress is just someone’s idea of a mean joke.

“My favorite song,” Bucky says. “It’s ‘The Great Southern Trendkill’ by Pantera.”

“Ah,” Steve says with a smile as he adds the song to his mental list. “I’ll have to look it up.”

“You won’t like it,” Bucky says.

“I might.”

“No,” Bucky says. “But okay.”

Steve smiles at that and closes his eyes to the light of their—yes, _their_ , Steve likes that—tree laying in its glittery death ring of destroyed ornaments. It’s a broken Christmas for damaged people, he thinks. The lights are still so bright though.


	13. Chapter 13

_To realize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each of us is here for._

— Oscar Wilde

New Year’s Eve is a quiet night for them, they stay in and Steve fields phone calls from all of his new friends wishing him a happy new year. He puts the phone on speaker so Bucky can listen as well as watch Steve roll his eyes while Tony Stark thanks him for the ultra glittery snowman Hallmark card he received the day after Christmas. Even Natasha Romanov calls to wish Steve a happy new year. She won’t say where she’s at—or perhaps she cannot due to it being classified—but Bucky can hear people speaking Hungarian in the background. It’s not difficult to deduce where she is from that alone, but he doesn’t breathe a word of it until after Steve hangs up and wonders aloud where she is.

“Hungary, most likely,” Bucky says.

“I wonder what she’s doing,” Steve says.

“Working, I am sure,” Bucky says.

“Did you ever go to Hungary?”

“Yes, I shot a member of Parliament in Budapest,” Bucky says. “In nineteen-seventy-three, I think it was.”

“Why?” Steve asks.

“I didn’t ask why,” Bucky says. “I only did as I was told.”

“I’m—”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

He turns the television on after that and they watch about thirty minutes of _Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve_ even though Dick Clark is dead and now it’s some guy whose head vaguely resembles a gourd. Bucky doesn’t know who either of them are, but he is annoyed by how obnoxious everyone is and the musical guests are even worse.

“What is that?” Bucky asks as he leans back into the sofa cushion to try and escape the caterwauling of a woman with a bleach-blonde mohawk.

“Pop music,” Steve says with a grimace of his own. “At least I think it’s _supposed_ to be music. I’m not really sure.”

“Make it stop,” Bucky says. He imagines shooting the woman in the face just to shut her up and takes some comfort from that. It’s not nice or pretty, but it’s what works for him.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Steve says with a nod as he turns the television off, cutting the straining songstress short mid-shriek. He taps his fingers on his knees then asks, “You want to watch a movie? I’ve got a stack Sam brought by the other day that I haven’t even touched. I think it’s more eighties.”

“Does anyone sing pop music?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “If they do then we’ll fast forward through those parts.”

“Okay,” Bucky says.

Steve gets up and looks through the movies then says, “Actually, these are the nineties.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Steve says. He picks one called _Reality Bites_ and puts it in.

Neither of them like the movie worth a damn; Steve actually scowls at the end of it. He gets into such things way more than Bucky ever has and now Bucky is even less invested.

“What the heck did we just watch?” Steve asks. He looks at the Post-It note Sam stuck to the DVD case. “This says it’s a must-see because of cultural significance to grunge—I still don’t really know what that is—and nineties culture in general.” Steve snorts and puts the note back down on the end table. “If that’s the best the nineties had to offer then I’m glad I missed them. _Why_ did that girl pick the nasty band guy who treated her so badly? The other guy was so much _nicer_ and really seemed to care about her. That other guy was… he was a _jerk_.”

“She was stupid,” Bucky says and thinks Steve probably identifies with the movie more than most people. He _is_ the original nice guy who always finished last. Except not anymore; now there are people who would wonder the opposite: What’s a nice guy like Steve doing with an asshole like Bucky?

“I guess she was, gosh,” Steve says with a shake of his head. He checks the time on his phone. It’s a little over two hours until midnight. “You want to watch another one?”

“Okay,” Bucky says. For all he cares they could sit and stare at the wall all night, but he also finds that he likes to make Steve happy. If that means watching movies he doesn’t care about watching then he will do that.

They watch a movie called _Crash_ next.

Steve is thoroughly appalled by the end of that one. “That was so disturbing,” he says. “Sex and car crashes. _Graphic_ sex and car crashes.”

“I thought it was interesting,” Bucky says.

“Really? Because it was… Vaughan was… Gah,” Steve says.

Bucky startles himself by laughing. It’s not altogether sane sounding, there is a trilling wire of madness running through it that may never go away, but it’s still interesting to laugh at all.

When he stops, Steve is smiling, too, a little pink-cheeked, but he looks… pleased.

“Glad I can amuse you,” Steve says.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just reaches out and tugs at Steve until he’s sitting right next to him, their sides touching. Steve leans into him with another smile and they sit together as the minutes tick down toward the dawn of a new year.

“What kind of car do you drive?” Steve asks.

“A Lincoln,” Bucky says. This has become a thing they do since they broke Christmas together: Steve asks little questions from time to time and Bucky answers. Mostly. Even when it is hard, when every fiber of his being rebels against doing it because secrecy is a hard habit to break.

“What color is it?” Steve asks.

“Black.”

“Does it have tinted windows?”

That’s an oddly specific question, but Bucky still says, “Yes.”

“I figured.”

“You think about what kind of car I drive?”

Steve shrugs, the gesture clumsy because of how they’re sitting. “I have a vivid imagination and there are a lot of blanks to fill in.”

Bucky nods and watches the ghosts of his graduating class throwing their caps into the air. Steve is standing in the center of the auditorium aisle wearing his best suit, clapping so hard it has to sting his palms. Bucky smiles at them and watches as Steve rushes toward Bucky as they all begin to file out amid the cheers and laughter.

“Do you remember the night I graduated high school?”

Steve jumps and looks at Bucky with wide-eyed surprise. Bucky has tried this out a couple of times so far, always hesitantly, but curious to know if he’s remembering things correctly or if the ghosts are lies.

“You got so drunk you puked on my good pair of shoes,” Steve says as he puts his head back on Bucky’s shoulder. “And my coat… and my shirt… I think some of it even ended up in my hair.” He laughs even as he wrinkles his nose. “You were like a geyser of cheap hooch.”

Bucky’s answering smile is slower to come, still not used to being on his face, but he says, “I thought that was it.”

“You weren’t sure?”

“Sometimes… I’m not sure… of anything,” Bucky says. Sometimes he’s not even sure he’s awake. Sometimes he thinks he’s back in cryo and has somehow managed to retain the ability to dream through his newest death.

“Well, be sure about that,” Steve says. “It really happened. We had to stop so you could rest; really so I could rest, let’s be honest. You were drunk, but I was the one trying to hold you up and that wasn’t easy back then. Anyway, when we stopped, you kissed me and it was so nasty.” Steve snorts softly. “I kissed you back though.”

“Why?”

“Because it was you and you were kissing me and that was… I always liked that, it didn’t matter, I guess,” Steve says. He fidgets a little and clears his throat. “A mint would’ve been nice though.”

“You were fifteen when you did it the first time,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Steve says faintly. “We were talking about Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz and you were laughing and I thought… So, I just did it.”

“I remember,” Bucky says.

“I’m glad,” Steve says. “It was so lonely being the only person who remembered things from back then. Who remembered _us_.”

“I know,” Bucky says. There’s a sidewalk cutting through the living room, a street sign that he can’t quite make out situated on the corner. Bugs fly around the glow of a street lamp. The street is empty though and Bucky stares at it, feels like the whole damn world—of then and now—is holding its breath, waiting for something.

A few minutes later the alarm on Steve’s phone goes off to announce the midnight hour. While it’s still blatting away at them, Steve cups his hand around Bucky’s neck and draws him close. “Happy New Year, Buck,” he breathes against his mouth with the soft curve of a smile turning his lips up.

“Happy New Year, Steve,” Bucky says before closing the scant distance between them and kissing Steve slowly, thoroughly, while the alarm continues to blare.

When they pull apart, Steve at last turns off the phone then Bucky pulls him up from the sofa. Without a word, he leads Steve to the bedroom and undoes him completely while the sound of people singing “Auld Lang Syne” drifts in to them from all over the city. 

After it’s over, Steve lays beneath him, panting, cheek pressed to Bucky’s, arms around him and holding on tightly still. “I never thought I’d get you back,” he whispers hoarsely. He tightens his arms around Bucky a little more, the action instinctive. “I love you, Bucky.”

 _But I love you, Bucky…_ That ghost will always be an echo, Bucky thinks, even if one day the others do find their way back inside his head where memories belong, the sound of Steve’s voice; so hurt, so earnest, will remain forever.

Bucky kisses Steve’s sweaty temple then his forehead, he skims his lips lightly over the long sweep of Steve’s eyelashes and feels them tickle the sensitive skin. “I know,” Bucky says slowly. Then, “I… love you, too.”

He always has and he should have said it back then, but he never did. Then the chance was lost. Then _they_ were lost. Then Steve was simply gone from his mind like he hadn’t been there for most of Bucky’s life. It was all gone, gone, gone away and Steve had thought it would never return while Bucky forgot it was ever there to begin with. Now it’s back and they’re here now even though one of them is insane and the other has his own damage to deal with. But unlike most people, they did get their second chance and Bucky, as unused to optimism and looking on the bright side as he is, has to think that counts for something.

They don’t say much after that, but they stay in the bed and Steve lies curled up against Bucky’s side with his head on his chest. Bucky strokes his hair after a while spent thinking about it and trying to dredge up the ability to do it because little innocuous things like simple affection still elude him. Such things are like conversation: he knows how it works just fine, but applying that knowledge is a different task altogether. It tangles up with the still present, though slightly abated, internal quaking that comes from wanting things. Therefore, _wanting_ to show Steve _affection_ is like trying to run uphill with an anvil tied around his neck. It drags along behind him and tries to pull him down every struggling step of the way. It’s another of those things that hurts, that leaves Bucky still wondering if he’s even real because _real people_ don’t have this kind of problem, just like they don’t have all of the other issues Bucky has these days. Bucky-that-was would not have been so stumped by a simple act like stroking Steve’s soft, short hair.

Steve falls asleep with his head on Bucky’s chest and soon he is snoring faintly. About an hour after that, Bucky feels the slight moisture of drool against his naked skin. In the dark, he smiles, that time suddenly and bright with real amusement. This is definitely a novel and peculiar, though funny, experience. Steve would turn beet red if he knew he drooled on Bucky in his sleep. Bucky wonders if that may well be good enough reason to tell him about it later. It seems like the sort of thing real people do. Like the sort of thing Bucky-that-was would do.

Bucky turns his head to glance at the clock on the nightstand. The time is 2:49 a.m.; he should receive a call soon if things are a go with the plan he’s been hatching with Giovinazzo since he first set Bucky on the hunt for the mole. He needs to get up and have his phone at the ready should it ring. So, he gently extricates himself from Steve who stirs, but thankfully does not waken.

He dresses in the dark with quick, practiced efficiency and is sitting in the living room, phone in hand, by 2:58 a.m. At 3:10 a.m. his phone does ring. He flips the cheap burner open and doesn’t say a word, only listens to his instructions, which consist of a single word: “Now.”

Bucky walks out of the apartment on cat burglar feet, closing and locking the door behind him. It is officially New Year’s Day and he has work to do.

He drives to another club that Giovinazzo owns called Cherry Pickers; an upscale strip club with bottle service that actually includes Cristal as an option. Typically the club would be hopping until dawn, but tonight it is closed for a private party—or at least that is the lie one of the attendees has been told. There are only a half dozen cars in the customer parking lot and a five more around back for employees. He knocks on the back door of the club and it’s opened by a large man with pockmark acne scars on his face and an even worse scar jagging down his forehead, across the bridge of his nose and onto his left cheek. He is suitably intimidating looking in a scary, lab experiment kind of way.

“You Winter?” the guy asks.

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“Huh,” the guy says as he steps back to let Bucky inside. “I thought you’d be taller.”

“Where is he?” Bucky asks.

“Private show with Nightshade in room four,” the man says.

Bucky nods to acknowledge he’s heard the guy and starts to walk off, but stops when the man says, “Hey.”

“What is it?” Bucky asks, looking over his shoulder at the big guy.

“Don’t hurt the girl, huh? I know you got a job to do and I ain’t gonna dispute that, but she ain’t done nothin’,” the man—apparently gentle, ugly giant—says. “It’s… uh… ya know… my job to keep ‘em safe and if—”

“I won’t hurt her,” Bucky says. _As long as she doesn’t get in my way._

“Thanks, man. Just… yeah,” the guy says.

Bucky does not acknowledge that and walks away, leaving the large bouncer fidgeting uncomfortably behind him. He walks through the club and takes in the ten other men sitting around the stage while a tiny slip of a girl with the muscle tone of gymnast writhes and wiggles to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. One of the men points toward the correct room and they all give Bucky slight nods as he walks by them, but none of them will meet his eyes. The laughter he heard coming from the main bar area while he was talking to the bouncer has been silenced. Now the men only stare at the petite young woman shaking her A-cups at them, not really seeing her anymore, and drink their liquor faster.

The interior of room four is dark, but not so dark Bucky cannot see. There is another half-naked girl squirming in his target’s lap, long black hair in carefully shaped ringlets cascading down her back. The waterfall of her hair parts in places to show a tattoo of a murder of crows flying across her pale shoulders. The music is different in here, some kind of slow, downtempo electronic music with heavy bass hits like the boom of thunder. _Hold a side… Butterfly…_ a woman sings over and over and over again.

Bucky touches the stripper’s shoulder and she jumps, whipping her head around so quickly and hard her hair fans out in an elegant cascade to fall over the front of her opposite shoulder. Her dark brown eyes are ringed with smeared black eyeliner that sparkles with glints and glimmers of red glitter like distant hellfire. She’s wickedly pretty and when she sees Bucky, she smiles at him. They’ve met before; she does double duty as a waitress some nights in the VIP room at Ballyhoo.

“Heya, Jimmy,” she says though it’s so loud in the room he has to read her lips because he can’t hear her.

She’s liked Bucky since he helped her up in the parking lot one night after a rowdy customer’s girlfriend pushed her down and called her a skank, like it was Nightshade’s fault the sleaze couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He never bothered to tell her he wouldn’t have given her predicament a second thought had she not specifically asked for his assistance; that hadn’t seemed like the right thing to do. Now that is paying off, she thinks they’re chummy, so she won’t give him any shit for what he’s about to do.

“Leave,” Bucky says, leaning close to whisper it in her ear. “Don’t look back.”

Nightshade’s eyes are wide with understanding when she stands up, a tall girl already who now towers over Bucky in her platform stomp boots. Her patron has gone still and quiet now that he’s finally noticed Bucky is in the room with them. He looks between the girl and Bucky, growing visibly uncomfortable.

“I’ll see ya, Jimmy,” Nightshade says with a light touch to his shoulder before she departs the room, leaving behind her black vinyl bra on the floor beside the oxblood leather couch.

“Heeeyyy, Winter,” Kyle Strahan says as the music cuts off. He still has bruises all over his face from Christmas Eve, but he’s trying to play it cool. Every line of his body is bowstring taut though and Bucky estimates there is a 75% chance of him attempting to bolt in the next thirty seconds. “You uh… What? You want a turn with me, that it?” Kyle’s laugh is as strained and taut as his body language.

“Mr. Giovinazzo would like to have a word with you,” Bucky says.

“So he had to send his pit bull to get me, huh?” Kyle says with another strained laugh. He’s a jackass, but he isn’t stupid. Oh, he _plays_ dumb very well. Just not well enough. His fingers twitch on the sofa cushions beside his hips and his eyes dart toward the exit that Bucky is blocking with his body. “Must be something real important then.” He scoots a couple of inches to the left.

This is a cat and mouse game where the cat is a tiger and the mouse is a three-legged, half-blind scrap of meat. The game is rigged and such games never end well for the mouse. Before Kyle can actually get around to bolting, Bucky moves and in one smooth motion he’s closed the gap between them and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around Kyle’s throat.

“It is very important,” Bucky says as he bodily lifts Kyle from the sofa to stare into his eyes. He gags and slaps at Bucky’s arm, but his grip is unforgiving, unrelenting.

Bucky does let him go, but only long enough to grab Kyle by the hair and drag him out of the private room. Nightshade is on the stage now, bottomless as well as topless, stomp boots still on. No one turns to look around at Kyle even though they can surely hear him screaming for Bucky to, “Let me the fuck go, you animal!” as Bucky drags him through the club. Nightshade is dancing to “Thunderkiss ‘65” by White Zombie and as Bucky drags Kyle through the door that leads back to the strippers’ dressing area, the question is posed: _What’s new pussycat?_

There are girls in various states of undress in the back room, some changing into new costumes, some messing with their hair or makeup. Two stand around a mirror streaked with lines of cocaine like acolytes to a pagan god. Not a single one of them turns to look at Bucky as he walks through their midst. These women know the drill well; it’s not the sort of thing that happens here very often, but it’s wise to learn the protocol for the occasions they do occur. 

At the back of the room next to a door nearly hidden by a rolling rack of glittering costumes stands Antony Giovinazzo. He does look at Bucky and when he does, he smiles like a shark and approaches Bucky and his cargo. Giovinazzo leans down to look into Kyle Strahan’s terrified, enraged face and shushes him when he starts spluttering, “Tell him to let me go, Mr. Giovinazzo. I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, you got it all wrong. Make this fucker _let me go_ , he’s yanking me bald here.”

“Shut up,” Giovinazzo says mildly. Kyle snaps his mouth shut and stares up at him with scared eyes. Bucky can feel the way he’s trembling even though the only hold he has on him at the moment is on his hair. “That’s better,” Giovinazzo says when Kyle keeps quiet. “I need to have a word with you, _Agent_ Staley.”

“What? No, you got the wrong—”

“I do not and I know that, so don’t test my patience or try my kindness,” Giovinazzo says. “Understand?”

“But—”

Giovinazzo slaps Kyle across the face so hard Bucky feels some of his hair tear loose from his grip.

“Understand?” Giovinazzo repeats.

Kyle nods and Giovinazzo seems satisfied with that. “Good,” he says as he walks back to the door and opens it. “Come along now, gentlemen, let’s get this business straightened out, shall we?”

Bucky says nothing though Kyle has once again started trying. Bucky uses his grip on Kyle’s hair to shake him viciously. He yelps at the burning pain of it and flails, trying to claw at Bucky and make him let go. He barely even feels it as he walks through the open door and down the stairs into the cold breath of the soundproofed basement below, Kyle thump-bumping along behind him like an oversize rag doll.

In the basement, Bucky lets go of Kyle’s hair, which he predictably uses as an opportunity to try and run away. Bucky goes after him and a quick punch to the back of the head drops him like a ton of bricks. With a soft laugh, Giovinazzo goes to sit in a cushy armchair while Bucky situates Kyle in a sturdy chair made of heavy wood planks nailed and bolted together so that it looks like one of the early versions of an electric chair. Giovinazzo calls it the Hot Seat for a reason, though there is no electrical hookup to this chair, no metal helmet with a thick twist of wires like an umbilical cord sprouting from its center. There are, however, straps for both a person’s wrists and ankles, which Bucky fastens while Kyle is out cold.

They wait for Kyle to wake up on his own, but after fifteen minutes have passed and he’s only barely begun to stir, Giovinazzo says, “Wake him up for me, Winter.”

“Sir,” Bucky says with a nod as he steps forward and jams his fingers right into the sensitive bundle of nerves located in Kyle’s armpit. He jerks awake with a shout as he tries to twist away.

“Thank you,” Giovinazzo says.

Bucky nods again then moves away from Kyle to stand beside Giovinazzo’s chair until he is needed further.

“Good morning, you little fuck,” Giovinazzo says when Kyle has stopped squirming and cursing. “Here’s what gonna happen: You’re gonna tell me everything you know and not give me a lot of shit about it or Mr. Winter here is going to break your bones one by one. _Capiche?_ ”

“I don’t know nothin’, I—”

Giovinazzo raises two fingers and flicks them toward Kyle. It’s all the direction Bucky needs to walk over to him, grab his left hand and snap both his index and middle fingers in one easy motion. Kyle screams as the bones break with brittle crackles and stab through his skin.

“You wanna try that again?” Giovinazzo asks.

Kyle goes the noble, heroic route so that by the time he does start talking, all ten of his fingers are broken as is his left wrist and ulna. Bucky is about to do his left radius when he finally says, “Okay, I’ll tell you what you wanna know.”

“So glad you see it my way,” Giovinazzo says. “Start talking.”

Kyle starts with what they already know: Kyle Strahan’s real name is Kyle Staley and he’s an undercover agent with the FBI’s organized crime division. They’ve been trying to get dirt on the family Giovinazzo now runs for years, since before he was actually in charge. When they learned of the previous boss’s death they took the chance to move in, saw it as an opportunity they couldn’t pass up because they expected the family to be in an uproar. They thought there would be a power struggle between those vying to take control and everything would be a chaotic, disorganized mess. Giovinazzo rules with an iron fist though and he kept a tight lid on things, nipping anything that did look weedy in the bud before it got out of hand. Then a year later, he brought in James Winter and things got tighter because even if someone did want to backtalk, they were too damn afraid of The Machine to do so.

“How much of this information have you given to your higher-ups?” Giovinazzo asks.

“None of it, I swear—”

That quick flick of his fingers again and Bucky crosses back to Kyle, snaps his left radius then his right wrist in quick succession. Kyle screams and gags just before he finally can’t take it and vomits all over himself from the pain of it.

“You sure?”

“Please, just stop,” Kyle says. “I done told—”

A flick of his fingers and Bucky breaks Kyle’s right forearm, pausing only between snapping his ulna and radius for a moment to give Kyle a chance to amend his story. When he doesn’t, the right radius joins the left. 

“You still sure?”

“Not much!” Kyle screams, openly sobbing now. “I don’t have much of anything to give.”

“And what you have given—who did you give that, too?”

“No, I won’t tell you,” Kyle says. “One of those guys has got a wife and three kids. No damn—”

He doesn’t just scream when Bucky slams his left fist down onto his right thigh and snaps the femur like a popsicle stick. He shrieks like a tea kettle that’s been left unattended then his eyes roll back in his head as he passes out.

“You got to show me how you do that,” Giovinazzo says as he wiggles his fingers in his ears. “Fuck, he’s loud.”

“I would cut his tongue out,” Bucky says. “However, I feel that would be counterproductive to your goals.”

Giovinazzo laughs heartily at that as he points at Bucky and winks. “I knew you had to have a sense of humor in there somewhere, Winter.”

Bucky doesn’t have the first clue why that’s funny, but he’s getting used to making jokes he himself does not get. So he just says, “Thank you, sir,” since he feels a response is in order though he doesn’t know _what_ the response is.

Giovinazzo snorts with amusement and Bucky figures that means he was close enough. Then Giovinazzo lights a cigarette and smokes it while watching Kyle. When he’s put it out, he says, “Wake him up. I’m tired and would like to get this shit over with before the next new year.”

Bucky wraps his fingers around Kyle’s ruined left forearm and he comes to with a strangled scream.

“I need names,” Giovinazzo says. “The sooner you give them to me, the sooner this ends. It’s easy math. You don’t talk, Winter keeps breaking you like cheap glass; you do talk and Winter stops hurting you. It shouldn’t be hard to figure out which one is the right answer here.”

“Please,” Kyle moans.

A flick of his fingers and Kyle’s left humerus joins the collection of broken bones he’s already got.

“God, please, God!” Kyle cries. “Stop!”

“You ready to dispense with your nobility and spill the beans?”

“Yes, yes!” Kyle bawls.

And he does. After that he sings like a canary, giving out names and clearer details on what information he has given his handlers on the other end up this deep cover operation. His good pal Steph from the Christmas Eve party is one of those names and Bucky thinks he _will_ rip her offensive tongue out her head when it’s her turn. Kyle gives four more names, making it five in total and just like that, Bucky’s new year is off to a busy and profitable start. They won’t kill them all at once and some of the deaths will have to look like accidents—in fact, most of them will, but not Kyle Strahan’s. His death will serve as a message to anyone else that might even consider sniffing around their organization: _Do it and you’ll end up just like your buddy._

When Giovinazzo is satisfied he’s got all he can out of Kyle, he nods for Bucky to take the restraints off. Kyle tries to cradle his broken left arm with his right and screams when the pain reminds him that isn’t going to happen. He’s shaking, sweaty and pale, probably verging on going into shock. That would be bad given what the main event here really is, so it is definitely time to get this show on the road.

“I need a hospital,” Kyle moans feebly.

Giovinazzo laughs again, laughs and laughs and laughs as he shakes his head. “No, you don’t. Mr. Winter here is going to take good care of you. Right, Mr. Winter?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says as he goes to the wall and punches a button hanging from a cord that dangles from the ceiling in the corner. There is the low whirr of a motor as a gambrel rig attached to a chain and pulley lowers from the ceiling. While it finishes doing that, Bucky pulls on a heavy duty black rain slicker then retrieves the skinning knife from the place one of the other guys left it earlier.

“No! No!” Kyle screams when Bucky comes toward him again. He tries to get up and run, but that’s impossible with his broken femur and he falls to the floor with a sharp scream then immediately begins trying to crawl away. Bucky plants one booted foot in the middle of his back and pushes him flat against the floor while Giovinazzo steps forward to strip off Kyle’s shoes and socks. He even holds the gambrel steady while Bucky jams the hooks through Kyle’s legs to hold him on the rig. Then he goes back to push the button on the switch to raise Kyle up until he’s dangling right over the big metal grate set in the slightly bowled floor.

Bucky uses a pair of heavy duty shears to cut the rest of Kyle’s clothes off—it is much easier to do with him strung up and helpless. Once Kyle is nude and Giovinazzo has taken his seat again and settled in for the show, Bucky begins the careful task of skinning Kyle Strahan alive. It isn’t as easy as it would otherwise be due to all of Kyle’s broken bones, but Bucky makes do.

Kyle still isn’t dead by the time Bucky peels his skin off like a thick rubber suit and drops it to the floor. Skinning in and of itself isn’t necessarily fatal if the person doing the work is careful not to cut any veins, which would result in exsanguination. There is nerve damage, but not death. Death comes surprisingly slowly and infection is usually the real culprit. It’s hard to keep the germs out when the body’s most protective layer is absentee.

“Damn that is ugly,” Giovinazzo says, head tilted down to look into Kyle’s pale, unconscious face. Because Bucky did not skin his neck or peel his face, Kyle’s remaining skin bunches and wrinkles around his head, the skin of his neck a thick wadded flap caught on the bones of his chin and jaws. It looks like he’s wearing a poorly fitted mask. Giovinazzo leans back again and nods at Bucky. “Finish it.” 

Bucky uses the knife to make short, deep cuts on either side of his neck into each carotid artery, the way you would if you were butchering an animal. If you cut the throat of something hanging upside down, you run the risk of severing the esophagus at which point the stomach’s contents will usually flow out like sewage through a busted pipe. The blood squirts hard, jetting from the deep gashes in the arteries; the pressure of being upside down and so much blood being pooled there making it spray like a fire hydrant. Kyle gags and thrashes weakly, but he never actually wakes again. He passed out again when Bucky made the cuts around his groin and they’ve left him alone. The torture is—somewhat over—now it’s only about getting the rest of the point across: making an example of Kyle Strahan (Staley). Bucky stands beside Giovinazzo and watches him die, blood running down his heavy slicker like dark rain.

When Kyle is without a doubt dead, Bucky begins the task of taking him down from the gambrel. Bucky drags his body, leaving a dark red snail trail in his wake while Giovinazzo gets up to open the large deep freezer secreted away in another room of the basement. Kyle’s body cannot be disposed of right now; in a couple of days they will thaw him out and someone will go dump his body in a public place for authorities to easily find. There’s no use in sending a message if no one can read it, after all.

After Giovinazzo helps Bucky toss Kyle’s body into the freezer, they go back into the main room where Bucky strips off the slicker and leaves it with the knife and shears for disposal by the cleaners who will come along later. He washes his hands and face in the big industrial sink standing in one corner, dries off then puts on the clean gloves he took from his car. The soiled ones he adds to the pile of other things for the cleaners to get rid of.

“We’re going to have to be extra careful in how we get rid of the others that pig bastard named,” Giovinazzo says once they’re in his office at the back of Cherry Pickers. He looks tired, but he’s agitated enough he’s not yawning, his dark eyes snapping with sparks of anger. “We gotta close ranks, too, keep everything tight and not take anyone else on for a while. You understand that, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, I figured you would,” Giovinazzo says.

“If I may ask a favor though,” Bucky ventures.

“What’s that?”

“Let me make an example out of the woman he named. Stephanie,” Bucky says.

“That’s the bitch he was at the party with, huh?” Giovinazzo asks. “Yeah, yeah she was. She’s been trying to get on our guy Rocco’s cock for about a month now. From what I hear, he’s been letting her, too. That’s going to have to stop or Rocco can go with the whore.” He stops talking and thinks for a moment before he nods and says, “Fine. I trust you to bust the bitch up right. When I give the order for her, go get her and do what you want. Call me when it’s over and I’ll send someone to do the rest.” Giovinazzo smiles then. “It’s the least I can do for all your service and loyalty.”

“Plus, you get something out of it, too,” Bucky says.

“That, too,” Giovinazzo says with a grin, unrepentant. “But mostly this one is for you because you asked.” He leans back in his chair, observing Bucky before adding, “You’ve got a real bright future in this organization, Winter. You’ve made your bones and earned my respect a hundredfold more than these other assholes have. Some of them are real good fellas, don’t get me wrong, but you’re special. You have something they don’t and never will have. I’m thinking it’s about time I promote you. Make a made man out of you.”

“I am content with my station,” Bucky says.

“Don’t worry, Winter, I ain’t about to take your fun away from you,” Giovinazzo says. “But if you come to work for me full-time there’s a lot more perks in store for you. I can guarantee that.”

“I’ll consider it,” Bucky says.

“Good, you do that,” Giovinazzo says. “The offer will be on the table when you finally make up your mind one way or another. I want you on my team and my team only, so I’m willing to go the distance here and keep the door open instead of a limited time offer.”

“I appreciate it, sir,” Bucky says.

“Sure you do,” Giovinazzo says with another smile. “How’s the watch holding up?”

“Excellently,” Bucky says, taking it from his vest pocket to show Giovinazzo. “It’s very useful.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Giovinazzo says as he stands up and goes to the wall safe to finally get Bucky’s payment. When he hands it to him, Bucky raises his eyebrows. It’s double what Giovinazzo usually pays him. When he glances up at him, Giovinazzo says, “There’s lots, lots more where that came from—and even more than that if you take my offer. I need a right hand, Winter and you’re my first pick.”

Bucky nods and takes the money. “I really will consider it, sir,” he says.

“All right,” Giovinazzo says then leans back and stretches to pop his back. “I’ve got to get my tired bones into bed sometime this week.”

“I also need to be on my way,” Bucky says as he rises from his seat. “I’ll see you soon, Mr. Giovinazzo.”

“Same to you,” Giovinazzo says. “You did great work today, Winter and I thank you.” He claps Bucky on the shoulder as they walk out of the club and into the bright light of mid-morning. “Happy New Year, son.”

“Sir,” Bucky says with a nod as they part ways.

 _Son_.

Giovinazzo called him _son_ and that is such a new feeling; something almost fuzzy stirring inside of Bucky at the sound of that word. He has much more important things to think about though. Bucky has the chance at an actual career here; not just as an enforcer and hired gun, but as a real player in the Giovinazzo family. He’s already become a player though; by rights hit men are still rather low on the totem pole. Bucky is the exception to that rule because his skills are exceptional and Giovinazzo recognizes talent when he sees it, regardless of what that talent is.

However, this is different because becoming a made man and Antony Giovinazzo’s right hand means he would end up with a job that on the surface looks legitimate. He’d have a cover—and he could actually stop lying to Steve about what he does. He couldn’t tell him, _I’m an under boss in the Giovinazzo crime family_ , but he could still honestly say, _I’m a nightclub manager_ or whatever kind of front job he ends up with. That, more than anything—even the money—is why Bucky begins to give Giovinazzo’s offer some real and serious thought.

He drives back to his apartment instead of going back to Steve’s. He needs to shower in his own bathroom because he smells like a slaughterhouse despite the heavy slicker he wore to do the real wet work on Kyle. There are also things he must consider and plans to make and remake; plus, he needs to put his money away. All of that requires a certain level of aloneness he will not get if Steve is around.

After his shower and redressing in clean clothes, Bucky sits at the table in front of his windows and watches Steve while he thinks. He paces a little bit then stops mid-stride, shakes his head and goes to sit down. He picks up a book from the end table and holds it, staring out the window toward Bucky’s apartment. It’s not the first time Bucky has noticed him doing that and he wonders if Steve plays their old game. Wonders if Steve is curious about his neighbor across the way and makes up stories to tell himself about them. When Steve lifts his hand in a little wave, Bucky waves back by just barely lifting his fingers from the tabletop. Steve can’t see him with the winter sun glaring off the glass, but it’s the thought that counts.

Around two o’clock, Sam Wilson comes to visit Steve and Bucky observes that, too. They stand by the low, open counter that separates the kitchen from the living/dining room area and eat the last two cupcakes Bucky gave Steve. They’re probably rather stale by now, but neither Steve nor Sam seem to mind. Steve has tentatively mentioned that maybe Bucky should meet with Sam Wilson one day and try talking to him about the things that haunt him so. Bucky is not open to that idea whatsoever and shut Steve down quickly on that front, but he has agreed to just meet Sam Wilson one day. He’s important to Steve and Bucky must now make an effort to keep Steve happy.

Bucky leaves Steve to his visit with Sam and goes into his bedroom to take a much needed nap. When he wakes again as the last rays of the sun die away, it is with a scream caught in his throat and his skin crawling. He dreamed of Steve dead on some foreign battlefield, tangled in loops of razor wire; just hanging there while birds pecked out his eyes and a stray mongrel dog ripped raw hunks of meat from his calf. Bucky folds over on himself and lets the scream go into the flesh of his arm as he bites down-down-down until his teeth meet through the thin wall of his flesh.

After he’s bitten himself bloody yet again, Bucky rises from his bed enfolded in a shroud of calm as he tends to his wounds. Then it’s back to his usual post where he watches Steve who is once more alone. Bucky waits about half an hour before he takes out his cheap, useful cell phone and calls Steve. Steve gave him his number a while back and Bucky committed to memory without offering his own in return. Now he dials Steve and listens to the rings while he watches Steve go get his phone, stare down at the blocked number before he shrugs to himself and answers.

“Would you like to go for a ride?” Bucky says without preamble.

“Bucky?”

“Of course,” he says. Then again, “Would you like to go for a ride? With me. In my car.”

“Yeah, yeah sure,” Steve says. “Where’d you get off to earlier anyway?”

“Work,” Bucky says. “Get dressed, I’ll be there shortly.”

“Sure, all right,” Steve says.

Before he can say anything else, Bucky ends the call. Across the way, Steve takes the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a second before shaking his head. Bucky makes a note to try and improve his phone etiquette. He has the distinct impression he did that all wrong.

When Steve is dressed and once again sitting on his couch though not calmly now; he’s fidgeting and keeps touching his hair like a nervous kid waiting for their date to arrive, Bucky gets up and leaves his own apartment after closing the blinds. He calls Steve again when he’s parked outside of his building and before he can remember his manners, he hangs up again after saying, “I’m right outside.”

Steve comes down a minute later and smiles at Bucky when he rolls the passenger side window down to look at him. “Hey,” Steve says as he jogs the last few feet to get into the car. “You’ve even got leather seats,” he says after he’s seated and has put on his safety belt.

“They’re easier to clean,” Bucky says as he pulls away from the curb and Steve looks around the car, wincing at the sound of Carpathian coming out of the stereo, but not complaining.

“Where are we going?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “Just driving.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He smiles hugely when Bucky takes his right hand off the wheel to reach over and clasp Steve’s while they ride along. Bucky can’t help the answering sliver of smile that pulls at his face in return. All he’s ever wanted is to make Steve happy; that he can still do that even now makes him feel a little less like a flawed, broken _thing_.

They drive for hours, finally stopping at an open diner—the first they’ve seen since they left the city—to eat supper. They have messy chili bacon cheeseburgers, a large order of fries apiece and pie for dessert. Steve gets chili on his chin and it doesn’t seem the least bit weird to Bucky when he automatically leans across the table and wipes it off. Steve turns pink, but laughs and goes right back to eating like it’s no big deal.

“You’re still taking care of me, even now,” Steve says.

“What… else am… I supposed to do?” Bucky asks.

“Nothing, I guess,” Steve says. “Except now, maybe let me take care of you sometimes, too.”

“You do,” Bucky says a few minutes later.

“I don’t feel like I do,” Steve says.

“That doesn’t matter,” Bucky says. “Just know that… you do. You’re… good for me.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“Even after what happened at Christmas? Because I _am_ still sorry about that,” Steve says.

Outside their window there is a fair with a ragtag bunch of clowns and acrobats tumbling and juggling and cartwheeling through the ghost of a weedy lot down by the river. Their once bright costumes are ragged and faded because the Depression has gotten everyone down, but Steve is there and he’s smiling at Bucky, looking between him and the woman riding on the back of a pretty dapple grey horse. Ghosts, ghosts; everywhere he looks are ghosts, but they’re back to being manageable and that’s got a lot to do with Steve, more than he will ever know.

“Yes,” Bucky says. “Even after that.”

“So, ah… Are the ghosts gone then?” Steve asks.

Bucky snorts softly. “No,” he says. “There’s a street fair in the parking lot right now.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He fiddles with his napkin, tearing little confetti-sized pieces off until he’s made a tiny mound of chili-stained white fluff on the table. Then he looks up at Bucky. “Will you tell me about it?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I do,” Steve says. “And maybe if you talk about it then it might help put them back inside your head. I mean… What I mean is that if you don’t just keep it all bottled up and try to ignore it, if you tell me about it even if you don’t want to tell anyone else, maybe it’ll make them… lay back down. Because they walk, don’t they? Like movies, right?”

“Actors on a stage,” Bucky says after a while fighting with his brain and tongue to make the words come out of his mouth in a solid sentence.

The fair is gone from the parking lot; now it’s his mother teaching him how to dance when he was just a little tyke. The old tile of the diner has become the worn wooden floor of their old walk-up. Bucky is standing on her feet, giggling, hair sticking up in the back with a monstrous cowlick that thankfully grew out by the time he was in third grade or so. He’s smiling up at her, a mirror of the ghost of his littlest sister dancing with their father.

With a deep breath, Bucky tips his head slightly toward the main aisle of the diner and says, “I’m dancing with my mother. I was maybe five then…”

Steve listens with rapt attention, never once growing impatient with Bucky as he stumbles over his words and breaks his sentences into a million little pieces sometimes. They drink coffee and Steve listens as Bucky describes the mime that chased them in Central Park when they were twelve or thirteen. Steve fell down and Bucky went back for him, braving the wrath of the crazy mime to do so. Bucky threatened the guy with a rock the size of his own fist when he tried to get pushy with them then—and all without ever saying a word.

“I still don’t like mimes,” is the only thing Steve says to that.

“Does anyone?” Bucky asks. As apathetically neutral on most things as he is now, even Bucky does not like mimes. They’re just _wrong_ , he feels.

“I can’t imagine why they would,” Steve says. “Though if anyone does, I bet it’s Tony Stark. He’s an odd duck.”

Bucky knows enough about Tony Stark to think he’s a spoiled, over-indulged, obnoxious man bordering on being a bully in some aspects of his life and manner of conducting himself, but he says nothing about that. Only says, “We should pay and go. I think they’re closing.”

“Sure,” Steve says.

They leave a tip for their waitress then pay at the counter before leaving.

They end up out in the country where the roads start going bad and some of them are so narrow that two cars can barely pass each other. The darkness is nearly absolute this far out in the boonies and Bucky would worry about becoming lost if not for the GPS on his car. They end up turning onto a rutted gravel road with thick trees on one side so close to the edge of the road that they threaten to overtake it. On the other side is a unused, overgrown field bordered with a sagging barbed wire fence covered in snow. Everything glitters white, platinum and all the colors of blue in the light of the half moon.

Bucky jumps the fence to walk out into the snowy field and hears Steve follow him a moment later. They stop in the center of the field, sunk up their knees in snow and not caring a whit about it because the stars overhead are a symphony of light, winking and blinking like they’re swaying to some song neither of them can hear.

“I haven’t seen the stars like this in a long time. Too long,” Steve says.

“Me either,” Bucky says.

“Thanks for today,” Steve says. Bucky can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Thanks for letting me back into your life, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he just leans into Steve and they watch the stars for a little longer. Then he asks, “Did you ever learn how to dance?”

“God, no,” Steve says. “I don’t have the time or, well, anyone to dance with.”

“Do… do you…” Bucky asks. He licks his lips, clears his throat, taps his fingers. “Do you want to learn?”

“Now?” Steve asks, surprise clear in his voice as he looks at Bucky.

“Yes,” Bucky says. “Unless—”

“No, now is good,” Steve says. “If I stomp all over your feet though then just remember: you asked.”

“I think… I can manage that,” Bucky says.

He leads Steve back to the road where there’s less snow and turns on the radio in his car to find a song. When he finds one he deems acceptable, he goes back to Steve who’s waiting for him at the front of the car, shifting from foot to foot. It’s cold and their pants are wet from the snow, but they’re better adapted for this kind of weather than most. More than Steve even, Bucky is not all that affected by the winter. He is the winter, after all.

“Put your hands… here,” Bucky says, guiding Steve’s hands to his neck. He puts his own on Steve’s waist just above his hips. “Now… follow me.”

In the frosty starlight, they turn and sway, Steve stumbling and apologizing every few steps, as they move across the frosted gravel road. When Bucky dips him, Steve barks out a surprised, pleased laugh, the sound coming up all the way from his belly. When Bucky raises him back up, Steve wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him, the sound of his laughter echoing down the corridors of memory. It tickles the back of Bucky’s throat, runs down it like honey to spread through him and make a home inside his chest as he kisses Steve back.

For the first time in a very long time, Bucky truly feels his heart beating again, telling him he really is alive.


	14. EPILOGUE

_Please:_   
_swing low, Supernova, & come to carry me home._

— Meg Day   
“Aubade for an Accomplice”

On the first day of Spring, Bucky moves in with Steve. He doesn’t have a lot to bring with him, only his clothes. The table and chair he leaves behind in his apartment along with his money and the impressive cache of weapons he has amassed. Eventually he will find a new place to keep his private things, the things Steve does not need to know about, but for the time being the apartment across the way will do as well as anywhere else. The painting stays on the living room wall and Bucky knows that wherever else he may make his hideaway, the painting will go with him there as well.

“Is that all you have?” Steve asks when Bucky walks in with two suitcases. He knew Bucky was probably a minimalist, but this is extreme.

“There’s another suitcase in the car,” Bucky says. 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says.

Bucky puts one of his suitcases down so he can get his keys out of his pocket. He tosses them to Steve and he’s gone the second his fingers close around them. This is a big day for both of them, but Steve especially is overjoyed. He’s made room in his closet for Bucky’s clothes and has big plans involving them having steak for supper and well, sex later. Maybe twice if they have time before Bucky goes to work. It’s a deliciously naughty thought that makes Steve smile to himself as he pops the trunk on Bucky’s car—the car Bucky sometimes lets him drive now—to retrieve the third suitcase.

After Bucky has put his clothes away, they sit in Steve’s refurbished living room. There was no saving it after Christmas and Bucky paid to have everything redone, including buying a new sofa. Steve’s new carpet has deep, cushy pile and is a dark grey now, his living room walls with their patched over spots are dove grey. Bucky picked the color and Steve has no complaints. The coffee table is much sturdier than the old one and has a granite top. While he didn’t ask how much it cost to have all of this done—that would be rude—Steve does wonder.

Sitting together now that Bucky is officially living with him is a new and unnerving thing. Bucky can face down twenty armed men without so much as a twitch, but sharing a home with the one person he loves is terrifying and for the first time in a while, Bucky has to fight the urge to get up and bolt. Bucky is as outwardly neutral about this as he would be if his shoe was untied or half of D.C. blew up, but inside he’s the slightest bit of a mess.

This has great potential to go sideways though he would prefer it didn’t. His sleeping habits alone are bound to cause problems eventually—he’s already hit Steve twice when he tried to wake him from bad dreams. The fear of genuinely _hurting_ Steve nags at Bucky so hard that half the time he doesn’t sleep until after Steve’s out for the night. Then he stretches out on the sofa and catches a few winks before he wakes up trying not to scream and soaked in sweat. He’s always back in bed before Steve gets up for his run with Sam, but Bucky thinks Steve is onto him anyway.

“You about ready for supper?” Steve asks.

“I could eat,” Bucky says. His ability to talk has seen a good deal of improvement. He still fragments his sentences sometimes and he’s not the talkative, gregarious Bucky-that-was, but he can hold up his end of a conversation much better than he could previously.

“Good because I’m starving,” Steve says as he gets up. He stops and looks down at Bucky then on a whim leans over to kiss him because he can do that now. This is his—theirs—and it’s good even if Nick Fury is most displeased about Steve knowing the whereabouts of the Winter Soldier and not saying anything for months. That Fury calls Bucky “the soldier” and never _Bucky_ has not escaped Steve’s notice and it’s starting to really irritate him.

Tony thinks it’s all really bizarre that Captain America likes men as well as women and not only that, he is canoodling with one of the most prolific assassins the world has ever seen. That is his usual preface that leads into asking Steve really uncomfortable questions about his sex life that are _none_ of Tony’s business. No matter how many times Steve has told him this, Tony does not listen. The last time they spoke, Tony said, “Hey, no, it’s cool. I’m just curious is all and you know, I get it. I kissed Happy this one time when we were drunk.” In the background Steve had heard Happy loudly berating Tony and decrying him. “He’s full of shit. I’ve totally tickled his tonsils,” Tony assured him.

That’s when Steve hung up on Tony.

When Natasha found out, she called Steve up and said, “I’m not going to give you a bunch of crap about this, Rogers. I’m sure everyone else is doing enough of that for ten of me. _But_ make sure he doesn’t kill you in your sleep. Other than that, congratulations on getting your boyfriend back.”

Steve had not hung up on her, but it had been tempting.

Sam’s take on everyone’s (over)reactions is thus: “Fuck ‘em.”

Today is not the day to think about any such thing though. Today is the day that Steve cooks them supper while Bucky sits on the sofa and keeps company with his ghosts. Steve glances into the living room, watches Bucky watching them for a minute then says, “Tell me what they’re doing.”

After a minute, Bucky says, “It’s Philip.” That’s it and nothing more, but Steve doesn’t need to know more than that.

“He had a good life, you know,” Steve says to try and draw Bucky out of his bad memory.

“He did?”

“Yeah.” Steve smiles. “I looked up his obituary along with pretty much everyone else’s once I’d adjusted a little bit. It said he died at home surrounded by loved ones. It mentioned his longtime roommate as the one to contact for information on the funeral. I think roommate meant something else.”

“Like his boyfriend,” Bucky says.

“Uh-huh,” Steve says. “He finally found somebody. It was the mid-seventies, so they still couldn’t really talk about it. I mean, I guess by then they could’ve, but I figure Philip’s old habits died hard and he just never did. But the point is—he was happy, he found somebody to love and they stayed together.”

“Good for Philip,” Bucky says with a nod. If anyone deserved happiness it was that cheerful, green-eyed man with a smile that could stop traffic. “It’s good that he got to be happy.”

“He told me something once,” Steve says as he goes to check the steaks. They’re doing fine and when he comes back to the counter, he finishes, “He said that the only real monsters are the ones in our minds.”

“Then he never saw aliens descend upon New York,” Bucky says.

Steve laughs. “Yeah, but I don’t think that’s what he meant either. I think he meant we create our own horror shows right here.” He taps his temple.

“Or they’re created for us without our permission,” Bucky says, waving his hand at the ghost of some long ago handler tipping the Winter Soldier’s head back to put in the mouth guard. The familiar, but so hated phantoms of electricity buzz beneath his skin as he watches the Winter Soldier jerk and scream in the chair. “Either way, Philip was probably on to something.” He shakes his head and glances at Steve—eye contact is still a struggle, but that’s improving as well, though slowly. “You want to come with me to work later?”

Steve chokes on the bite of brownie he’s ruining his supper with and says, “Seriously? You even have to ask?”

“I thought it would be better than knocking you out and transporting you there without your permission,” Bucky says. He cocks his head. “That was a joke. Right?”

“Right,” Steve says. “You’re much better at that.”

“I still don’t find myself at all amusing,” Bucky says.

“Give it time,” Steve says. “And _yes_ , yes I want to come to work with you later.”

“Excellent,” Bucky says. “Try not to freak out though.”

“Why?” Steve asks, feeling a little suspicious and apprehensive now. “What is it?”

“You’ll see,” Bucky says with a cryptic smile and that’s the end of that.

That night after supper and the sex that followed for dessert, Bucky gets dressed in one of his nice suits and says, “You ready?” to Steve who’s been up and dressed for over an hour and trying not to bounce in place too much.

“Yep,” Steve says.

He makes it to the car before Bucky does and that does make Bucky laugh. He might not amuse himself, but Steve can amuse him.

When they arrive at Bucky’s place of employment Steve looks at the flashing neon sign then back at Bucky with wide eyes. “Cherry Pickers? Is this a bar?”

“It’s a strip club,” Bucky says. “I manage it.”

“What? How?” Steve narrows his eyes at Bucky. “Are you messing with me again?”

“No,” Bucky says. He does not tell him how he took Giovinazzo’s offer near the beginning of February with just this kind of thing in mind when he did. Now he doesn’t have to lie so much anymore. Now Steve sees the front he works from and the books on Cherry Pickers are clean—it is a legitimate business—and what goes on in the basement sometimes or what else Bucky does on the side is of no matter. “Do you want to come in?”

“You’re serious.” Steve shakes his head. “Really serious.”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“So you spend all your time at work around naked people,” Steve says. “Huh.”

“Only naked women,” Bucky says.

“What?” Steve frowns. “Oh, I get it. Naked _people_ , but it’s only just naked _women_ , no men. That was a bad joke, Buck.”

“I thought it was okay,” Bucky says. He gets out of the car and heads toward the employee entrance. If Steve’s coming then he’ll follow him.

A second later the passenger door opens then closes a second after that. “I don’t know about going in here,” Steve says as he falls in step beside Bucky. “This isn’t really my kind of place.”

“It’ll be fine,” Bucky says. “I mostly stay in my office anyway.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He takes a deep, calming breath and when Bucky uses his key to open the back door from the outside, Steve follows him into the pounding grind of “Sweet Child o’ Mine”.

“Hey, Boss!” the girl behind the bar calls when they make their way into the main area. She’s a pretty Asian-American girl who dances under the name Utopia. She’s a big favorite with the customers, in part because she can actually dance. Not many people can glissade and take off their tops at the same time, at least they can’t while still managing to look graceful.

“Where’s Carl?” Bucky asks.

“That’s the deal,” Utopia says. “That asshole didn’t show again tonight. We’re taking turns _again_ doing his job. I’m not complaining, tips are good, but this is crazy.”

“Did you call him?” Bucky asks. Carl is the bartender who was working when Bucky took over management. He was a good employee up until two weeks ago when his wife left him.

“We all called him,” Utopia said. “Frank even drove by his place, but no one’s home.”

Bucky nods and says, “I’ll take care of it.”

“What’re you going to do?” Utopia asks. She has a certain fondness for some of the shadier dealings that go on in Cherry Pickers. If Bucky was anyone else, he’d consider her interest unhealthy. As it is, he doesn’t give a damn.

“Fire Carl and hire a new bartender,” Bucky says.

Utopia nods and says, “Cool.” Then she notices Steve and her eyes get huge. “Holy shit! You’re Captain fucking America!”

“Uh… hi,” Steve says, sticking his hand out to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, my God,” Utopia says as she takes his hand. Her smile turns flirtatious as she leans over the bar to get closer to Steve. “I can get someone else to watch the bar for me if you want a private dance.”

“No, no thank you,” Steve says, backing away from the bar. “I appreciate it, but that’s not—”

“He’s not here for pleasure,” Bucky says. “He’s here to keep me company.”

“So, business,” Utopia says and her eyes light up as what must be a million different scandalous and fascinating things race through her mind.

“No,” Bucky says. “Not business. Just friends.”

“You’re friends with _him_?” Utopia says. “Seriously? I mean, you’re a great boss and you treat us girls really nice, but you don’t seem like the kind of person that has _friends_. I’ve gotta tell Nightshade about this. She’s going to shit bricks.”

“You learn something new every single day,” Bucky says then turns away, tugging at Steve’s arm to get him away from Utopia before her mouth overloads her ass and she says too much that Bucky can’t explain.

“You need a new bartender,” Steve says.

“Yes,” Bucky says as he sits down behind his desk. “Are you applying?”

“No, not me,” Steve says. “But I think I might know someone. I need to talk to them, but if they’re on board—God, I hate asking you this, but she needs a better job than what she’s doing right now, it’s so dangerous and—”

“Are you talking about the prostitute you’re friends with?”

“Diamond, yes,” Steve says. He really hopes Bucky will do this for him. He does feel awful putting him on the spot, but this opportunity has just landed in his lap and he can’t pass it up either. “She needs to get off the street and if she wants to do this then will you give her a chance?”

“She needs to have a liquor license,” Bucky says. Before Steve’s face can crumple, he holds up his hand. “I’ll pay for it. Until it comes in we’ll just… pretend… she has her license.”

Steve lights up then. “Thank you, Bucky.” He looks around Bucky’s sparsely decorated though comfortable office. “I still can’t believe you manage a strip club.”

“Well, I do,” Bucky says with a smile of his own. This is nice, being honest with Steve. He taps the stack of bills waiting for him on his desk. “Tonight I get the honor of writing checks to pay all the bills.”

“Wow,” Steve says with another shake of his head. Is this the job Bucky didn’t want to tell him about? Or was he doing something else before he found this one? Is this where he got shot? Does it even matter that much anymore? _No_ , Steve decides, it doesn’t because this is now and that was then. Bucky is sitting behind a big wooden desk with a leather-bound checkbook open in front of him as he goes through a stack of bills. Real bills for the real business he manages. The employees—at least one—know him, too, which is even more proof. “You’re a manager.”

“You’re a superhero,” Bucky says. “I think… you’ve got me beat… on the job front.”

“No, I think this is great,” Steve says. “You. Working at a job in this century even if there are naked people—sorry, naked women—involved. I never thought… I never thought I’d get to see you doing anything and now here you are. I love your job.”

“At least one of us does,” he says.

Bucky makes a surprisingly excellent manager though; he’s efficient, good with money and doesn’t put up with any shit from employees or customers. He’s still not friendly and probably never will be, but his employees seem to respect him because he affords them the same courtesy; some of them even _like_ him. Regulars know not to get too rowdy or to grab the girls because sometimes it’s not Frank (the scarred bouncer) who throws them out, but James Winter, manager extraordinaire. One bounce from him and they seldom ever re-offend if they come back.

Bucky still won’t say he likes this aspect of his job, that would be a lie (he particularly loathes paperwork). He is much more suited to violence and murder. He still gets to do that though and this newest little part of it isn’t all that awful either because Steve can sit across from him while he does paperwork. Steve cannot sit across from him while he cuts someone’s eyes out. This way, everything balances out.

After Bucky finishes with the bills, he goes out into the bar and dressing area alone to pass around the word that no one is to say _anything_ to Steve about Bucky’s other duties, nor are they to mention Antony Giovinazzo, murder, crime or the mafia in general (just to be on the safe side). He makes sure to really drive that point home to Utopia in particular. When he comes back, Steve is fidgeting a little and trying not to look bored.

“If you want something to do, I can find you something,” Bucky says. It’s half meant as a joke, but Steve sits up straight in his seat and looks almost pleading at the mention. So, Bucky hands him a clipboard with a sheaf of papers on it and explains to him how to do inventory. Five minutes later, Steve is rattling around in the stockroom happy as a clam.

An hour after that, Bucky is deep in the swamp of paperwork and Steve has just come back from getting a crash course on how to hook up a keg.

“Hey, I was thinking,” Steve says to draw Bucky’s attention away from the order form he’s glaring at on his computer screen.

“About what?” Bucky asks.

“Why don’t you come down to Southeast with me tomorrow night?” Steve asks. “We can stop by to see Diamond after, she can finally meet you and we can talk to her about working here.”

“I followed you for a long time,” Bucky says. “Haven’t I… already gone… with you?”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Steve says. He sits forward in his seat, elbows on his knees to look Bucky right in the eye for as long as he’ll hold his gaze. They’ve been practicing eye contact lately in a “whenever, wherever” kind of way. Steve looks Bucky in the eye and Bucky has to look back for as long as he can stand it. Sometimes it’s a lot like trying to give a cat a bath even though Bucky tries to do it. “What I mean is: I came to work with you and helped out and… I was thinking it would be great if you’d come down there and help me out, too. If we do it together, we can get a lot done.”

Bucky blinks at him and looks back at the offending order form while he thinks. “Maybe. But… I’m not so good… at letting people off with… warnings. And… we already do it together.”

“But you can be,” Steve says. “Heck, it might even be good for you.” Then he points at Bucky. “Also, that was a really off-color joke. I think this place is warping your sense of humor.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow and wonders how in blue hell playing vigilante would be good for him. Steve really wants him to say yes though, that much is clear. “Fine. Tomorrow night then. I’ll leave here early and meet you at the apartment.”

“Awesome,” Steve says. “But seriously, don’t kill anyone. After Krista Paulson… I just… Bucky… Why did you kill those people the way you did?”

“Because I… hated them,” Bucky says, a space of about three minutes between the first two words and the last.

“ _Why?_ ” Steve asks. Given how brutal the murders were, he can totally see the hatred Bucky must have felt, but he can’t understand it. What did those poor people do to make Bucky so angry he hated them? Steve has to admit that even though Bucky lets him in a little more each day, there’s still a lot he doesn’t know about him.

“They were so… human,” Bucky says. He taps his fingers on his desk in the same old rhythm: _tap-tap-tap, tap-tap…_ “They were… they knew… I don’t know.” He does know, but there are many, many things that even now are best left unsaid and the last part of that ( _They knew what loving and being loved in return felt like._ ) is one of those things.

“You’re human, too, Bucky,” Steve says. His frown softens; he doesn’t like what Bucky did and he cannot condone it—though he does forgive it and maybe (probably) too easily at that—but this isn’t the first time Bucky’s mentioned something like this.

“Sometimes… I am not so sure,” Bucky says. “Not even… now.”

“You _are_ ,” Steve says, reaching over Bucky’s desk to touch his hand. “I swear to you—I promise—you’re human.”

“Am I alive?” Bucky asks. “Sometimes I think yes… sometimes, I think… no.”

“ _Yes_.” Steve says to hell with it and gets up to go kneel beside Bucky’s chair. When he turns to look down at him, Steve takes his face in his hands and smiles. “You’re right here and you are _so_ alive, Buck. Believe me even if you don’t believe yourself.”

“I’ll try,” Bucky says as he turns his cheek into one of Steve’s big, warm hands.

“That’s all you need to do,” Steve says. “Eventually you’ll just know it. I bet on it.”

At least one of them is sure.

They go home together that night, have a snack then go to bed. When Bucky starts to get out of bed to go lay on the couch, Steve lays a hand on his chest. “It’ll be okay, Buck,” he says, snaking his arm around him. Bucky worries the bejeezus out of him and he’s still doing that thing where he tries to protect Steve. Except when Bucky sleeps, he is the one that needs to be protected.

“What if I hurt you?” Bucky asks.

“Then I’ll get hurt,” Steve says. He pushes up on his elbow to look at Bucky. “I can take a hit and you don’t have to go sleep on the couch to keep your bad dreams away from me. I meant what I told you—I want it all. _We_ can work through this.”

“ _We_ , huh?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” Steve leans down to kiss him quickly. “We. You sleep for a little while and I’ll keep watch.”

“What about you?”

“We can sleep in shifts,” Steve says. “Until you can sleep without having bad dreams, I’ll play the role of guard dog. At the first sign of trouble, I’ll wake you up.”

This does not sound like the best of plans to Bucky, but again: it’s Steve and he’s learned very quickly that he’s a pushover when it comes to him, which makes Steve his Achilles heel. That is not necessarily a good thing if the information fell into the wrong hands, but for now, Bucky will play along and try not to think about that too much.

“As you wish,” Bucky says with a twinge of pleasure at pulling off such an inside reference.

“Wasn’t _The Princess Bride_ great?” Steve asks with a laugh. They watched it a couple of weeks ago and Bucky even laughed. It was only once, but still.

“It was acceptable,” Bucky says.

“Goodnight, Buck.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

The next night, Bucky takes the Winter Soldier’s mask from Steve with a simple, “No,” as he slips it inside his own coat. They both need masks, but he cannot stand for Steve to wear that one and he’s done it for far too long already, so Bucky will wear the soldier’s mask. It was made to fit him.

Steve ends up wearing a black bandanna tied around his face.

As they walk to Diamond’s building, Steve grumbles. “I feel like I should be off robbing stagecoaches in the Old West with this thing on.”

“It looks fine,” Bucky says.

“You hit that last guy really hard,” Steve says.

“I didn’t kill him though,” Bucky says.

“There is that,” Steve says as he slings his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. He doesn’t flinch when Steve touches him anymore and that’s amazing; that’s real progress. “We make a good team.”

“We do,” Bucky says.

His heart really isn’t in the idea of saving people and cleaning up crime on the streets, but he does like working with Steve. He always has. Wearing the Winter Soldier’s mask again is strange and makes him feel funny, leaves his skin crawling, but he thinks he’ll readjust. Now he can take it off whenever he so chooses. Now it’s only a mask, not a muzzle for a monster. He tells himself that over and over as fire hydrants geyser water into the streets for the kids to play in. Steve and Bucky are too old, it’s the first day of summer and one week after Steve officially dropped out, but it’s a gorgeous day and it doesn’t matter if they’re getting their good clothes soaked. It’s a day worth celebrating.

He’s so lost in those ghosts that he doesn’t realize anything else is happening until he hears, “Mr. Mysterious! I was wondering where you was at!” Then, “Who you be?”

“This… this is my friend, Diamond,” Steve says as he lays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. She’s shrewdly appraising Bucky, leaning in her doorway with a tattered plaid robe on over a long nightgown with penguins dancing across the bottom.

“Friend, huh?” she says with a smirk. “Well, y’all come on in.”

“Thank you,” Steve says and steps in when Diamond moves out of the doorway.

“You talk, big boy or you just stand around and stare?” Diamond asks, leaning in close to peer at Bucky.

“I talk,” he says. Not well, but he does.

“That’s good,” she says. “Now I got Mr. Mysterious… What in hell am I gonna call you? Shit. I got to think of something ‘cause ‘Mr. Mysterious’s Old Man’ ain’t doin’ it for me.”

“Winter,” Bucky says. “You can call me Winter.”

“All right,” Diamond says. She tosses her braids over her shoulder and goes to sit back down with her bottle of vodka. “Winter. I like that. You kinda got a chilly thing goin’ on.” She nods and then says, “So, what’re you two doin’ here? I’m all quivery wanting to know.” She pats the sofa cushions on either side of her and they dutifully sit.

“I have something to tell you, Diamond,” Steve says. He fidgets with his bandanna; it’s itching something fierce where it goes behind his ears. “But first, I want to show you something.”

“You gonna take your shirt off?” Diamond asks with a big smile. She claps her hands together. “Oh yes, yes indeed.”

“Ah… no,” Steve says. He reaches up to the knot in the back of the bandanna. “I’m going to take this off.” Then he does and Diamond stares at him for a full five seconds before she whoops and gets up to do a little dance around the living room.

“Hot damn! _Hot damn!_ Are you for real?” she cries. “Ho-ly _shiiit_!”

“Hi,” Steve says with a big smile.

“Motherfucker,” Diamond says as she sits back down and turns to face Steve. She pats both of his cheeks. “You’re… _you_. Fuck me bloody.”

“Diamond,” Steve admonishes.

“What? Oh, that,” she says with a wave her hand. “It wasn’t an invitation or nothin’, baby doll. Just. _Fuck!_ Look at you.” She taps her temple and looks very wise. “I knew you’s hot. Didn’t know you’s America’s damn sweetheart though. Imagine that shit.” She pats—more like gently gropes—his chest with a little smile. “Fine ass man in my living room.” She glances over at Bucky and raises her eyebrows. “Scratch that. _Two_ fine ass men in my living room and one of ‘em is a hero and shit. My birthday done come early, this is truth.”

Steve smiles again—absolutely beams. He could really learn to love Diamond; he already likes her a whole lot, it’s not a big leap at all. 

“So, I want to ask you something,” Steve says.

“You mighta mentioned that,” Diamond says as she settles down, still grinning like a fiend. “Go on and ask, but yes—I do threesomes.”

“Huh? Wait. No, Diamond,” Steve says, spluttering and flustered.

She howls with laughter and Bucky coughs out a laugh, too.

“Oh, you’re pulling my leg,” Steve says.

“Honey, the way you react is more like I ripped the damn thing off,” Diamond says. “It’s too fucking easy.” Then she straightens up again and pats his arm. “It’s all in good fun though, Diamond wouldn’t be mean to you. Now ask me your real question.”

“Do you want a different job? A better one?” Steve asks.

“What? And leave all this behind?” Diamond asks. “I dunno. I mean, I got picked up for solicitation just last weekend and I tell you, nothing like city lock-up to make a girl feel _real_ special. Goddamn cops.” She shoves Steve lightly. “Of course I want a better job.” Then she eyeballs him. “Why? You offering me one?”

“Actually, I am,” Bucky says, taking his cue to speak up.

“All right,” Diamond says turning to look at him after Steve nods to her that it’s okay. “Am I going to be working for Masked Man Number Two?”

Bucky takes off the mask and she smiles when she sees his face. “You pretty, too. Definitely my birthday and finally a good one,” she says. “What’s this job then?”

So Bucky tells her, explaining how it all works and how she’ll eventually have to attend bartending school, but like with her liquor license that will all be taken care of. Until all of that is handled they will pretend it has already happened—again, like with her liquor license.

“And why would you do this for me?” Diamond asks. “I ain’t gonna shit on it, but I want to know _why_.”

“Because Steve… believes in you,” Bucky says. “You’re his… friend and he wants… better for you.”

“Aww, ain’t you just the sweetest thang?” Diamond says. Then she squeals again. “This is real, right? No bullshit?”

Bucky stares at her, completely stunned at being called _sweet_. “No bullshit,” he says once he’s recovered.

“Thank you!” Diamond cries as she launches herself at him, going so far as to climb into his lap so she might better smother him with her ample bosom. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Bucky’s instinctive reaction is to throw her off of him, but he catches himself in time and sits there while she hugs him. And…

“Are you… crying?” he asks.

“Hell yes, I’m crying,” she says. “You just gave me an out. A real fucking out. Oh, shit. I feel like I’m gonna piss my panties.” She looks at Steve, eyes streaming. “And you. This is all ‘cause of you.” She sniffs back more tears and says, “You best just brace yourself.”

“Wh—” is all Steve manages before Diamond clambers off of Bucky and is on him. She kisses his face all over, laughing and crying at the same time.

“You like my guardian angel,” Diamond says. “That’s what you are.” She hugs Steve so hard he almost chokes. “I am so glad that piece of shit tried to rape and murder me. Never thought I’d say that.”

“Don’t say that now,” Steve says. “That was almost so bad.”

“Yeah, _almost_ ,” Diamond says. “But you saved me. My Mr. Mysterious—and I’m’a still call you that even if you are really Captain America… Steve… Roberts? No, that ain’t right. I know I know your real name. Shit. Riley? Robins?”

“Rogers,” Bucky offers. “He’s Mr. Rogers.”

“Ha!” Diamond laughs. “Yes. You are Mr. Rogers. Won’t you be my neighbor?”

“I don’t get it,” Steve says.

Bucky grins and Steve looks at him for that. “Why do _you_ get it?”

“Television was on in a house… a long time ago… that program was on,” Bucky says. “The man’s name was… upsetting. I had to be… reset… immediately.”

“Reset? What the hell’s he talking about?” Diamond asks Steve. She gives Bucky a long, sideways glance. “He’s a weirdo, ain’t he?”

“He’s such a weirdo,” Steve says with a happy grin. “My weirdo.”

“Ohhh. So y’all worked all that out, huh?” Diamond says with a knowing smile. “He kinky?”

“No!” Steve says.

“I might be,” Bucky says with a slow smile as he turns to look at Steve.

“Cripes,” Steve says, but he laughs. Diamond might actually be good for Bucky. She has a gutter brain and Bucky’s mind tends to occasionally drift that way, too, at least his humor does. Steve has, much to his dismay, noticed this, but it’s actually not new. Bucky has always possessed a knack for innuendo and… colorful turns of phrase.

Diamond snorts. “So, when do I start work?”

“Tomorrow night,” Bucky says. “Be there at nine so I can walk you through things and… introduce you… yes, that’s right… around. Your shift starts at ten.”

Diamond makes another of those shrieking sounds and claps some more. She’s like a kid being told she’s won a trip to Disneyland and Mickey is going to be her very own personal tour guide. Steve never realized getting a job as a bartender in a strip club could be such cause for joy. 

They sit a while longer and Steve talks with Diamond while Bucky mostly keeps his own counsel. When they leave, Diamond gives them both big kisses on their cheeks and pats their asses on their way out. Bucky’s lips quirk up in a grin after he gets over being startled.

“She does that,” Steve says as they walk outside.

“Apparently,” Bucky says.

That night they’re lying in bed, dozing, but not sleeping when something occurs to Bucky. “Are you still sad?” he asks Steve.

“No,” Steve says. Then he shakes his head because that’s not entirely true and he does hate lying. “Kinda. It comes and goes like a wave or— No, that’s right. Like a wave. It’s weird because I’m happy now, too. Happy because of you, but sometimes I look around and I still feel so lost so… _misplaced_. When that happens then the depression hits me all over again, like it never even slacked off. Or I’ll hear someone mention the war, like on television in documentaries and they’ll say stuff like, ‘When the Nazis invaded Poland’ or ‘After Hitler’s death’ and I just think, ‘That’s not true. The war isn’t over and Hitler’s still alive. What are these people talking about?’ Then I remember again and there I go. Out of place. Out of time. Out of my element. But then there’s you and I love you like I always did and that’s the same and you’re still the same in some ways, I know you don’t think so, but you are and you… You make me feel not so alone and like I _do_ belong. You’ve always done that, Buck.”

It’s the same for Bucky in a lot of ways though he actually doesn’t get as confused about the time as Steve does in his split-second lapses. He is always aware of the present being _now_ and the past being _then_ even with the way it leaks over into his daily life like spilled ink. Or maybe because of it; there is definitely clear delineation for Bucky. But there’s also the fact that with his memory back he knows he’s had more experience—however limited—out in the world as it was changing than Steve. He was never thrust into a completely new century—a new _world_ —the way Steve was.

The Winter Soldier had debriefs and lessons and as technology evolved, the soldier was taught how to use it. Computers do not vex him the way they still sometimes do Steve; Janis Joplin is not new to him in the same way she is new to Steve. Bucky heard her singing her heart out at Woodstock while he waited for the chance to follow one scrawny, insignificant looking little woman away from that muddy field. Janis had still been singing, strong voice carrying “Kozmic Blues” all the way out into the shadows where Bucky held that woman down and shot her with a ten cent pistol—a dose of heroin laced with poison. One of his handlers had kindly translated that for him when another (idiot) handler had given him his mission using that phrase; it was a confusing directive in its original form to say the least.

One day he hopes to find the words to tell Steve about some of those things—the good parts anyway—because he thinks Steve would enjoy them. Hearing Janis sing was like a revelation to the Winter Soldier that long ago night. Her voice sparked something inside of him and though he did his duty, he was nearly unmanageable after being returned to the lab (cage) where they kept him.

None of that means Bucky is not also adrift in his own way. He’s tripped up by the everyday complexities of human emotion. He fumbles his way through conversations that last beyond _Hello! How are you?_ and the societally conditioned response that follows ( _I’m fine! And you?_ ). Mastering niceties is a lot like teaching a parrot how to say, _Polly want a cracker?_ It’s all mimicry and pantomime, which Bucky manages quite well if he puts his mind to it. He blunders when it comes to showing affection though and expressing his feelings. He gets tangled up in the urge to lash out when someone bumps into him in the grocery store.

Like Steve, Bucky is also lost, just in a different way.

“I’m… lost… also,” he gets out. “Very.”

“Then at least we’re lost together,” Steve says. Knowing he’s got Bucky to walk through this labyrinthine life with him makes it bearable. Makes it livable. He finally feels like he can breathe again. Until Bucky showed up in his apartment all those months ago, he felt like he was suffocating unless he was working—unless he was doing the one thing he’s always done. He takes Bucky’s hand in his and laces their fingers together, flesh and metal intertwined and fitting so well.

“‘Til the end of the line, right?” Bucky asks.

“Right, buddy,” Steve says with a soft huff of laughter before he rolls over and kisses Bucky. He lies back down, face turned toward Bucky. “Always.”

“Yes,” Bucky says then he leans over and kisses Steve’s forehead. “You should sleep.”

“What about you?” Steve asks, frowning in the weak light. He swore he would keep watch and he meant it. So far it’s worked pretty okay; he usually wakes Bucky up before things get too bad and by the second time, they’re both usually able to get a few hours sleep before the next nightmare hits. It’s broken sleep, but a few good hours are better than _zero_ good hours, which is pretty much what Bucky was getting before.

“I’ll be… fine,” Bucky says. “I’m not really sleepy. I’ll… wake you… before I decide to go to bed. I think… I will go… read.” He’s been trying that out again and it’s not always easy because of the noise inside his head and the distractions that spill out of it, but he’s plowing on because he used to love reading.

“All right,” Steve says. He yawns. “I am pretty beat.”

“Then rest,” Bucky says as he rolls out of bed. “I’ll… be along soon.”

“All right,” Steve says. He rolls over and plumps his pillow beneath his head, warm and content. He goes to sleep with the thought of, _Finally, this is home._ Not his apartment, not D.C., but this entire mad century he’s landed in.

Bucky does as he says for a while and reads a book called _American Psycho_ that he finds darkly humorous. Bucky finds that he understands a lot about where Patrick Bateman is coming from. He’s not an emotional vacuum or a cold-blooded psychopath, but that doesn’t mean he can’t nod his head when Patrick states: _I simply am not there_. Because sometimes he is more than lost, sometimes he is adrift. A man in a desert wasteland. A man hurtling through space. A man turning in circles inside of himself until he is whittled down beyond absolute zero. A man who looks at Steve Rogers and feels a wash of dizziness just like the one he felt in a snowy Brooklyn park late one night. A man who kisses Steve and thinks life should come with a note of caution: _Beware of vertigo._ But the spinning that comes from that no longer brings the old fears of the 1930s and 40s, it brings with it a pleasant feeling of surprise and revelation that needs no warning because the free-fall has been the best thing. It is the thing that brings Bucky back and puts his feet on the ground, makes the walls seem solid again.

Close to four a.m. his phone buzzes against his thigh to alert him to an incoming call. This is the real reason Bucky has stayed up so late. He takes it from his pocket and flips it open, listens as he is assigned his new mission: “If you still want that Stephanie cunt then go get her and do it with my blessing,” Giovinazzo says. “Make me proud.”

“I will, sir,” Bucky says. Then he ends the call and clears the log on the phone before he gets up, straightens his suit and pulls his gloves on. He’ll be done before Steve ever knows he was gone.

He drives off into the chilly early spring pre-dawn calm and relaxed as he plans how to best execute this new mission. Other than ripping the woman’s tongue out, he’s not sure how to end her, but he’s sure he’ll think of something. As Bucky turns the corner at the far end of their street, Steve’s ghost is standing on the corner holding that old red ball they both loved so much. He lifts one hand in a little wave and calls out, _Come play, Buck!_

“I’m coming,” Bucky says under his breath as he lifts one hand from the wheel and waves at that beloved phantom.

It’s still dark when Bucky gets home again, Stephanie was a quick and messy job and her remains are testament to the true power of a straight razor when wielded in the right hands. What’s left of her tongue is tangled in the jagged teeth of her garbage disposal. He showers in his old apartment and puts his suit back on—he’s learned a better method: keep a suit of plain black clothes—jeans, t-shirt, gloves, boots, socks; the whole nine, in his trunk hidden in the tire well. He covers the whole get up with a black slicker that is easily hosed down at a later date, usually in the shower of his old apartment while he washes what he’s come to think of as his work clothes. This new tack has proven to be a real time saver.

Back at the home he shares with Steve, Bucky undresses yet again and climbs into bed beside him at long last. It’s a relief to be back here, like there are weights being peeled off of him as he sinks into the mattress. He’s exhausted now and Steve is a welcome comfort.

“Hey,” Steve mutters sleepily, scooting close to wrap his arms around Bucky. “You good?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, laying his hand over Steve’s. “I’m good.”

On the wall across from him are their ghosts, Steve-that-was and Bucky-that was. They are sitting on Steve’s bed laughing in the bright sunshine pouring through his windows. The light splits into fragments in Steve’s hair it’s so shiny and on a whim, Bucky takes his hand and squeezes it, which makes Steve laugh even harder. He’s so happy— _they_ are so happy. They are nowhere other than where they are, which is together, stuck in a moment that they are both sure will last forever because it is just that good. There is no tomorrow, no _later_. Only now.

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand gently, breathes in his familiar smell and thinks the ghosts of those two boys had the best idea in the whole world. Then he thinks, _They were then, but_ we _are now_. That, he decides, is the best idea because it isn’t an idea at all. It is real and so are they. So is he.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this beast. I hope you enjoyed it because I had a lot of fun writing it. :D


End file.
